Sweet Fire
by Anne Louise 2000
Summary: The sweet sequel to Tinderbox. When an American heiress goes missing, Sherlock, now back at 221-B Baker Street, investigates with Molly and John. Mystery, adventure, and more romance, Sherlock-style.
1. Chapter 1: Flies and Wanton Boys

Sweet Fire

Chapter 1: Flies and Wanton Boys

_A sunbeam, a sunbeam!  
__I'll be a sunbeam for Him!_

_-Nellie Talbot_

God, it reeked. Dripping with filth, Sherlock pulled himself from the manhole, cursing sewers, sewer rats, bored workmen who threw reflective paint on sewer rats, other bored workmen who came to him, begging: 'A new breed of rat, Mr. Holmes! Stripes! Spots! They glow, Mr. Holmes!' Stupid, obvious case! He shivered in the April chill; small blessing: The cold dampened the stink. No cabs in this part of town, especially not near sunset. Where was the tube entrance? Oh, right.

XXXXX

Nearly noon in Waco, Texas. The April sun glared on a vast glass tower thrusting against the powder blue sky. Through the weeds in a field nearby, a rattlesnake slid in waves, finally warm enough to hunt. Its flicking tongue tested the air: Left- Right- Something- Turning slightly, it sensed a mouse nibbling with quick jerks. Slowly, slowly, the snake gathered itself into a tight ess, eyes locked-

XXXXX

"She there? Cool. Do it." Jephro crossed his diamondback boots on his glossy desk high in the glass tower and smiled at Waco spread out in front of him. "Make sure the mama knows who done it. Call me when you got her; I'll be there a-sap. Then come on home. Okay." He closed up his phone and leaned back, grinning. Top of the world, man. Sweet.

XXXXX

London was cold. Jeremy shivered; he and Tyler had a whole other stack of leaflets to distribute before they could be picked up: It was getting dark, and Jeremy was hungry. Like always. Satan was tempting them- Well, tempting Jeremy: Putting trashcans everywhere. How easy: Slip in the leaflets, make the call, get some soup. He glanced at Tyler, then- Oh! A dripping man stomped around the corner. Sent! Jeremy moved in front of the man-Ugh! Smelly!-and tried to look sincere. "Sir? May I ask if you regularly attend a church?"

"You may ask." The man stepped around him and kept on going.

Geeze! Jeremy caught Tyler's eye and shrugged, but Tyler looked anxiously after the man, then back at Jeremy. Oh, fine. "We'll pray for you, sir! Jesus loves you!" There. Duty- Oh! The man had stopped.

"Apparently, he's indifferent to you." He turned and faced them. "It is nearly dark in an area where street crime is commonplace, yet here you are, littering with your propaganda. It is cold; you have no coats. Your suits are new, yet they hang off you. Did you buy them too large in a fit of delusional optimism, or have your hosts been skimping on your meals and telling you hunger brings you closer to salvation?"

Tyler was trembling; Jeremy swallowed and tried once more: "We're here to spread the good news, sir."

"I also have news: Harassing the citizens of Britain is not an act of charity. If you must be here, buy a silly shirt or take a ride on the London Eye. Better still, scamper back to America and annoy your cows." He turned and disappeared down the subway entrance. Jeremy stared. Man! They said the people here would be resistant, but-Man!

"Jeremy?" Tyler sounded small and scared. "How'd he know we had cows?"

XXXXX

Ninety minutes later, Sherlock, in a slightly better temper due to a hot shower and clean change of clothing, was at St. Bart's, examining slides in the abandoned lab. Someone wearing Paris Nights perfume entered and drew a cadaver from the wall: Molly Hooper, clipboard in hand. Short skirt and silk blouse under her open lab coat; heels, hair up, more make up than usual: Must be an interesting case.

Quietly, he crossed behind her and studied the pale cadaver: Slightly obese man in his fifties, alcoholic, grotesquely swollen left arm and face, bright red rash- Sherlock glanced at Molly, reading the paperwork. "Ah…" she muttered, flipped to the front and started to write. Ah-! Her particular body chemistry brought out the citrus notes of the perfume.

Taking an appreciative sniff, he asked, "Something interesting?"

"Bee sting," she murmured, "Anaphylactic shock. Something off-"

"I would say so. Quite off."

"Yes. That's why I- Sherlock!" She was looking at him, smiling widely. "How are you?"

"Fine-"

"I haven't seen you since you left! What has it been? A month? Six weeks?"

"One day short of two months."

"All your things are still at my flat. I texted you. Twice."

"Three times, actually."

"You never answered."

"Yes."

"And you're here now? On a Friday night? Oh-!" She glanced at her mobile. "I've only got a few minutes-"

"I prefer having the lab to myself."

"Did you get your boxes of lab equipment? I put them-"

"Yes. Molly. Why didn't this man die of a bee sting?"

"Ah." She returned to the cadaver. "This man had known reactions to multiple allergens. I think someone gave him a shallow shot of something else-peanut oil, clam juice, raw egg-to make it look like a bee sting."

"And what makes you think that?"

"It's the timing." Consulting the chart, "He returned home well after midnight, highly intoxicated. According to his wife, he went directly to bed and either passed out or fell into a deep sleep. In the morning, he was dead. He couldn't have been stung before he went to bed: He would have been wheezing, swelling; something obviously wrong. But the chance of there being a bee in his bedroom at night is slim to none."

"And if there were one, it would more likely sting his face, assuming he had covers. Good. But if you didn't know the specific circumstances of his death, could you still eliminate a bee sting?"

Molly gazed at him; then back to the cadaver. "There is something. I can't-"

"Consider the time of year. Honey bees cannot fly in temperatures below 17; the warmest it has been in the past fortnight has been 15. Colder before."

"Oh, of course! I knew there was something." She smiled and glanced at the clipboard. "I put in an order to check for different antibodies. There will be pushback, though; they'll say it was a wasp or a hornet." Turning the arm, she examined the injection site.

Peering over her shoulder, "Wasps and hornets die in the winter months, except for the queen."

"Right!" She straightened to write. On her neck, Sherlock noticed a slight discoloration-a freckle-riding atop a tendon, jiggling- Her text alarm chirped.

"Nick!" Molly checked the text and frowned. "Canceled." She lowered the mobile, staring at it.

"Ah!" Sherlock brightened: They could look at other cadavers. Or the slides of mold cultures from her flat. Or-

"Dinner?" She was looking at him again; seemed to be posing a question. Yes, he had assumed she had planned to have dinner; now she would not have dinner. What- "Will you have dinner with me?" Oh! Come to think of it, he was a bit peckish. When he had stayed with her, Molly had always brought him take-away.

"Yes. Dinner. Yes."

Nodding slowly, "I have reservations for Sal's in half an hour. It's French."

Oh. Out to dinner, of course. The last woman who had asked him out to dinner was Irene Adler, and she had meant-

"Sherlock?" Molly was staring. "Would you prefer Chinese? We could-"

"No. French is fine. I understand the French are quite skilled at- dinner."

XXXXX

Deenie was curled up in the back of some truck or van or something. They were moving; she could feel the cold metal bumping her cheek through the cloth bag. Her mouth was covered with duct tape; hands and feet tied; arm stinging where they had given her some kind of a shot. She remembered being terrified a few minutes ago; but now- Now, she had this warm feeling sort of creeping through. Oh, yeah. Mama was going to be real mad, though. Yep. Mama would be pissed.


	2. Chapter 2: Alien Encounters

Sweet Fire

Chapter 2: Alien Encounters

_God Blessed Texas!_

_-Howell and Seals_

This was a strange turn of events. At Sal's, waiting to be seated, Molly reflected: She had helped Sherlock fake his death, given him a place to stay for a month and a half, risked her life with him-knives, fire, flesh eating insects-and he had vanished. Absolutely ignored her. She must have completely misread him, that hungry look he gave her right before he left; she had taken it for interest; but, no. Apparently, he had just been hungry. Then, 'Poof!' Magically back. She stole a glance: Wan and bony, still. So unlike Nick, who had tousled blonde hair and made her giggle. Unfortunately, Nick also sent texts like: _Must bail. Ciao –N._ Molly's stomach clenched as she thought of it: At this point, Nick had canceled more times than they had gone out, and they had gone out only once! The waiter came to seat them.

She and Sherlock were seated across from each other. They perused the menus and ordered: _Salade Russe_, _Brochette de Poulet_ and a glass of wine for her; poached fish, no sauce for him. As the waiter strode away, she smiled encouragingly. "So. What have you been up to all this time?"

"Not enough. Rather incredibly bored, actually."

"You're back at 221-B? Moved in?"

"Yes."

"And John? He's with you?"

"No. His own flat."

"Ah." The seconds ticked on. "So, is John- "

"The woman in the blue dress. What does she do?"

"Pardon me?"

"The woman directly behind you. What is her profession?"

"How could I know-"

"Come now," a sideways glance, "You had the highest close rate in the lab last month-"

"Last two months."

"The first month, I was consulting. Last month you were on your own. You have learned my methods, obviously. Move here." He indicated the seat around the corner from him, and Molly moved. "Now, look. What does she do?"

Molly glanced discreetly. "Fit looking woman in her late fifties, grey hair cut rather simply-"

"We can assume it is usually pulled back."

"Okay. Make-up-" she stared, then looked away self-consciously.

Sherlock nodded. "She is not used to wearing it."

"Military? Police?"

"Close. Consider her dining partner."

Molly took another discreet look. "Young man, early twenties, ill-fitting suit, short hair- Oh."

"Yes?"

"Amateur neck tattoo; and one on his hand. Prisoner. She's a guard?"

"Apparently so." Sherlock smiled.

"But Sherlock, why would-"

"Precisely. Why would a guard be taking a prisoner out to eat?"

Molly reflected. "Could it be-" she paused; Sherlock was gazing at her neck. Unobtrusively, she tried to wipe away whatever was there and continued, "Perhaps she is helping him celebrate his release?"

"Look at his wrists."

"Ah."

"Yes. Ligature marks. He has been in handcuffs recently. Why would they bind a free man?"

"A witness? Pled to a lesser crime?"

"And they are parading him about?"

Frowning, "Why then?"

Sherlock returned her frown. "I haven't enough evidence. But his presence does explain the plainsclothes policemen."

"What?"

"You didn't notice? Four of them outside, at least, and two in here. He must have been rather violent; still, a bit excessive-"

"Well, Gol, Earlene! They got cheeseburgs on the menu! Looky! Luh cheeseburger." The loud, American voice came from the large table behind Sherlock. "Lookit that!" A man in his sixties wearing a red velour jumpsuit was seated with a woman his own age, Earlene, in a matching aqua jumpsuit, and two men in their forties: One with a large cowboy hat and a bolo tie; the other in-Oh! A pale blue silk shirt, cream knit vest-Cashmere? Angora?- and royal blue and chocolate Scottish tweed jacket; skin well-toned and judiciously tanned; sandy hair carefully cut and moussed to disguise an encroaching widows peak.

This wonderfully turned out man responded, "Yes. We selected this-ahum-restaurant because the menu was-somewhat-accessible."

His voice! It was honey! Butter! So polished- Molly tried to catch Sherlock's eye, but he was sitting bolt upright and staring fixedly ahead. She whispered, "Sherlock-?"

"Shht." He held up a finger.

The gentleman continued, "They are not here yet, and it is nearly thirty minutes after the hour. Highly irregular." Even whinging, his voice was gorgeous.

"Oh, well." Bolo tie; American, of course. "If it isn't related to business, Cynthia takes her own sweet time. This is kind of late though." He glanced at his mobile.

Cheeseburger grunted. "They probably went shopping. Say Roger-" Sherlock gave a start "-there's this Englishman who fixes our air conditioner back in Houston. Perhaps you know him. His name is Kyle."

"I am afraid I cannot recall a Kyle in Houston."

Sherlock turned to Molly and whispered excitedly, "This explains the plainsclothes men. Do you know who that is?"

"Someone-"

"It is no less than Lord Roger Walsingham de Vere St. Simon! The second son of the Duke of Balmoral! He is to be married to an American heiress twenty years his junior. This must be her family."

"You know, Merle-" Earlene "-you remember we asked Kyle if he was from here before we left, and he said no, not London. He was from- Where was it?"

"Oh yeah. It was, uh," Cheeseburger Merle contemplated, "Dublin?"

"Dublin? Dublin is in Ireland." Lord St. Simon was all patience.

"Ireland? Gol! That's a whole other country! Why does he sound like he's from here?"

Molly whispered, "Sherlock, why?"

He leaned closer. "The Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures recently. St. Simon is bringing in a wanted infusion of cash. Perhaps the young lady is less-"

"Now, Al," Lord St. Simon was speaking to Bolo Al, "I am growing quite concerned. I spoke with Deenie three hours ago; they were going to have their sauna then come here directly afterward. Have you heard from them? "

"Well, let me-" Al's mobile rang. "Hey. Where are you? … What?" He listened for a few moments. "Okay. Okay! I'm on my way." Lowering the mobile, "Roger-"

"What's happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing. They got to talking in the sauna and lost track of time; they want to show me something. They're going to miss dinner; Roger, I am real sorry. Cynthia gets these notions; would you mind taking care of-" He indicated Merle and Earlene.

"Of course."

"Thank you, sir. Well, I'd better go and see what it is. Y'all take care now." He stood and made his way across the restaurant. Sherlock rose wordlessly and followed, leaving Molly alone.

She waited. She waited through the conversation regarding Merle's cheeseburger: "Well, I don't want any fancy cheese! Don't they have normal cheese? You know, like good old sliced American cheese?"

Through another round of geography and the homeland of Kyle: "You know, maybe he said he was from Dunedin."

"Ah. New Zealand."

"Is that around here?"

When their dinners arrived and she was still waiting, Molly took a rather deep swallow of wine and made a quick internet search on her mobile: Lord St. Simon, age forty-one, was to be married to Deenie Doran, age twenty-one, the elder daughter of Aloysius and Cynthia Doran, the owners and co-CEOs of the Texas Friendly international chain of hotels. Deenie's parents, her eighteen year old sister Victoria, and maternal grandparents, Merle and Earlene, had arrived in town four days ago for the small wedding scheduled to take place Sunday next. She was about to text Sherlock when he stalked back and slumped into his seat.

"Couldn't get a cab." He started rifling through his pockets.

Molly stared. "You were leaving?"

"No cab." He removed a considerable number of items from an inner pocket and piled them on the table.

"A pity."

"Yes," muttered Sherlock, sorting: A penknife, set of picks, jeweler's glass, notes and coins, bullet, string, collection notice marked 'past due', shiny blue jewel, longish millipede that unrolled and began to make the rounds-

"Where were you going?"

Pulling from other pockets, "I was trying to follow him, of course."

"Aloysius Doran?"

"Is that his name? Yes. But I couldn't- Ah!" Sherlock found a calling card tucked into a folded check, made his way to the larger table and placed the card beside Lord St. Simon's plate with a quiet comment.

As he returned, Merle stared after him. "Roger, what was that?"

"That," responded Lord St. Simon stiffly, pocketing the card, "was what we call, 'Intolerable cheek.'"

Molly leaned closer to Sherlock, scooping everything back into his pockets. "Is something wrong?"

Glancing up, he answered cheerfully. "Most likely. Molly, did I ever tell you about my travels in America? Fascinating place. Not quite as interesting as Bulgaria, but I had some intriguing adventures-"

XXXXX

It was late when they arrived at Molly's tower, and Sherlock was feeling rather well. Molly had been duly impressed by his American cases; he gave her opportunities to guess at the solutions, and she got a few, actually. And! From a program in the convict's pocket, they deduced he had been attending a funeral; whether dinner was a kindness extended to all funeral going convicts, or if this was a special case was unknown. On the whole, entirely satisfying.

At her entryway, Molly turned to him. "Sherlock, would you like to come up for a cup of tea? Or, I have sherry."

"No. Don't like sherry. And-" he frowned "-we had tea at the restaurant."

"Oh." She glanced down. "I thought- All right." Facing the door, she spoke over her shoulder. "I'll- Perhaps I'll see you at the morgue."

"Yes. You could text me, if you have an interesting case."

"Yes. I could. I- I shall." Keys out. "Well. Goodnight." A quick smile and her key inserted.

Wait. "Molly?" She looked back. "What did you mean, 'tea'?"

"Tea?"

"You meant something else." Sherlock's frown deepened. "Molly, I speak English. When someone says, 'tea,' I assume it means brown stuff in a pot. When people start imbuing words like 'dinner' and 'tea' with other meanings- It's idiotic, actually, and quite irritating-"

"'Tea' meant tea, Sherlock. Brown stuff in a pot." No longer smiling, she returned to her door. "I am rather tired. Goodnight." The key turned.

"Yes. Okay. Text me."

"Of course." She entered and was gone.

As he gazed at the door, Sherlock's text alert sounded. He glanced at the mobile, then back- No. She was tired and not smiling. He sighed and signaled a cab.

XXXXX

When John's shift ended, he felt barely able to move. It had been fairly routine for the emergency room: A traffic accident resulted in a head injury that wanted monitoring; two young American evangelists robbed by street criminals causing minor bruising and emotional distress (apparently, someone had warned them this might happen); a child who couldn't stop vomiting, only then she did. Still, John was exhausted and approached his block gratefully. As he was turning his key, a figure stepped into the entryway.

"John."

"Sherlock." John's stomach sank. "What do you-?"

"We have a case-"

"No. I'm exhausted; long night."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You are tired. You don't want-" he fell silent.

"I don't want what?

"Tea."

"Tea?" John stared. "No, I don't want tea."

"Thought not."

"Sherlock, what are you going on about?"

"Are you off tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, but I-"

"Good. Come to the flat at nine sharp." By the time John had digested the words and turned to protest, Sherlock had vanished.


	3. Chapter 3: Funny Thoughts

Sweet Fire

Chapter 3: Funny Thoughts

_My brain hurts a lot._

_-Hill and Hiller_

Deenie woke up throbbing. She was in a soft bed in what looked like a fancy, old fashioned hospital room, and seemed to be okay- Oh. A large bandage across her face. Another nose job? Oh no! Mama had chosen her new nose special; if Deenie changed it, Mama would- Wait. Deenie remembered vaguely: Someone had grabbed her-Oh, God!-covered her face- So this wasn't her fault? She sighed in relief. Okay, but Mama would want her to leave right now. _Make it happen, Deenie. Let's go._

As she got out of bed, Deenie noticed she was wearing a nightgown: Her own nightgown. Weird. She opened the door and peered into the hallway: No one in sight. Okay. She snuck out, past other doors like hers, around the corner-Oh! A man was talking with a nurse. An American man. Was this still London? She pulled back quietly, went to the other end of the hall, and looked around that corner: Empty-Yes! Through the doors at the end was what looked like a nurse's station: Phone! Computer! Heart pounding, she went for it-

XXXXX

Shortly before nine o'clock, and against his better judgment, John found himself pressing the buzzer at 221 Baker Street; the first time he had been back since Sherlock's funeral. Mrs. Hudson showed him in warmly enough, scolding him only briefly regarding his lack of attentiveness to her poor nerves: "He saws on that bloody violin day and night! Can't you come back and look after him a bit?"

"He's quite capable of looking after himself, Mrs. Hudson. High time he did, too."

"And who's going to look after me, then?"

In 221-B, he found Sherlock in his old chair, contemplating the empty fireplace. "Ah, John! Glad you could come. Our visitor should be arriving momentarily."

"What's this case?"

"Here." Sherlock handed John his mobile displaying the text: _Mr. Holmes-I shall call at 9 AM tomorrow. Postpone all other engagements and tell no one-Lord Roger St. Simon _

"Lord St. Simon? He's the-"

"Yes. His fiancée, Deenie Doran, her mother and sister all disappeared last night. We happened upon St. Simon, Deenie's father and grandparents last night at a restaurant, and I gave him my card when there were indications that something untoward had happened."

"What-?"

At that moment, the buzzer sounded, and Mrs. Hudson showed in a well groomed, middle aged man with a stricken face, wearing sumptuous clothing in grey, light purple and black. From the doorway, he caught sight of John and cried, "Mr. Holmes! I specifically requested you inform no one of our appointment! This is insufferable!"

"Dr. Watson is my associate; he is both discreet and necessary."

"He maintains a blog! I will not be the subject of internet tittle-tattle!"

"Have you read of my royal clients on his blog, ever?"

"I haven't the time- You have clients of my status?"

"Oh, far higher. I descend. Now." Sherlock folded his hands. "Have a seat and get to the point."

At this, Lord St. Simon collapsed into a chair and sank his head into his hands. "You were quite right last evening, Mr. Holmes. Something terrible has happened. My poor Deenie, her mother and sister all vanished! This is a nightmare! And one week from our wedding-"

"What happened?"

"I hardly know where to start." He lifted his head, trembling, "Aloysious left the restaurant to meet the ladies at a shop, but they never came. Cynthia's parents and I met him in the hotel lobby, and we all examined their suites: They were gone; their hand bags and clothing still there-"

"They never left the hotel? Curious."

"They were removed under duress, Mr. Holmes! Kidnapped! Or worse!"

"Have you or Aloysious- Al?- Doran received a demand for ransom?"

"No. Nothing."

"I must speak with Mr. Doran."

"He is at the hotel with the police."

"Text him. Tell him we will meet him there in an hour." Sherlock stood. "Shall we-?"

John glanced up. "Hang on, Sherlock. Lord St. Simon, where did you meet Miss Doran?"

Completing the text, Lord St. Simon sighed. "Two years ago, I was visiting with former American president Bush in Houston for the Christmas holidays- George Bush, not George W., although our families are close-"

"Pray, continue." Sherlock was pacing, hands pressed together under his chin.

"We were invited for a New Year's fete at the Dorans, and there I met Deenie."

Sherlock paused. "You were charmed."

"Entirely. She was quite amusing. She was completing her undergraduate university work at the time. We kept in touch through Facebook; she elected to take her senior year in London, and we renewed our acquaintance. After she was graduated, she returned to travel, keeping her flat here as a home base. You see, she and her family intend for her to manage the European portion of the hotel chain, eventually; she was trying to absorb the European mindset- the zeitgeist, if you will. I proposed a month after her graduation, and she did me the great honor of accepting."

"If she has a flat in town, why was she staying at the hotel?" Pacing again.

"Her family owns the chain; they have their choice of suites. Her mother felt things would be easier if they were all together."

"Ah. Well." Sherlock nodded at John. "Let us make our way to the hotel, now."

John lifted a finger. "One second more, Sherlock." Leaning forward, "Lord St. Simon, had Deenie received any threats, or noticed anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing. She told me of nothing. Deenie is a rather modest person who does not draw attention to herself. Few people know who she is; she has no enemies. Her family, however, commands great wealth: An estimated net worth of 300 million American dollars!" Lord St. Simon's voice stretched up an octave. "They must have been kidnapped!"

Nodding, John used a soothing tone, "We will do our best to recover them. What about you? Had you received any threats?"

"Of course I have my share of crack pots and loonies; anyone in my position does: Women claiming to have born my children, etcetera. Nonsense, all of it." With a heavy sigh, "It can be terribly trying to be of elevated status; the gold diggers who throw themselves at me!"

"Like Flora Millar?" Sherlock was speaking slowly.

Lord St. Simon drew himself up. "Miss Millar has nothing to do with this! She has been in France for the past fortnight; her credit card transactions are on record! You will leave her name out of this investigation and certainly out of any blog!" He rose. "This conversation is over, Mr. Holmes. I shall return to the hotel. I will see you in less than an hour's time with Mr. Doran." Grandly, he swept from the room.

After the door snapped shut, John turned to Sherlock. "And who is Flora Millar?"

"Mistress for the past two decades: A fiery temper and a past interesting enough to keep her from the Duke's good graces. Exotic dancing, I believe. Not likely to be our culprit, but he was getting annoying. Come! The hotel awaits." Sherlock gathered his overcoat and went to the door.

"Fine, Sherlock," John stood, "but I have plans for this afternoon. I must leave at half eleven."

Sherlock stared. "Plans? What plans?"

"Lunch, followed by tennis and bridge with Rebecca and her family."

"Rebecca? The daughter of your-"

"Supervisor, yes. Peter Clay is her father."

"Ah." Sherlock opened the door.

"Don't. It's not like that."

"Not like what?"

"Not like Lord St. Simon and Deenie Doran."

"Of course not." With a quick glance, "You don't go home to an exotic dancer."

XXXXX

Maria stood in the lobby of the hotel with her cleaning cart, waiting for the service elevator and watching the police come and come and come. "Keep your nerve, Al," she muttered. "Just keep your damn nerve."

XXXXX

Forty minutes later, John and Sherlock had made their way through the press vans and police cars, and entered the London Texas Friendly hotel. John was all eyes. The expansive lobby was designed to resemble the interior of a hewn log lodge in the American old west: A massive stone fireplace; longhorn bull and buffalo heads on the walls; leather furniture; a hanging chandelier made of antlers- He felt himself grinning uncontrollably.

"Sherlock Holmes! And Dr. Watson!" Detective Inspector Lestrade, waiting with a small civilian man in a baggy suit, approached them with a smile. He shook John's hand and addressed Sherlock, "I haven't seen you since you were dead."

"Yes. Detective." Sherlock looked around. "So-"

"Right." Lestrade took out his notebook. "Okay, it appears our victims were taken from the sauna, directly after the mother, Cynthia, rang her husband. The women had monogrammed robe and slipper sets: Victoria's and Cynthia's slippers and robes were in the sauna, but Deenie's robe and one of her slippers were missing. The dressing room had a service lift for the linens; no cameras in the room, of course. There was a matron, but she was off at five, when technically it closed; the Dorans had exclusive use of the sauna each evening by special arrangement. We've gone over and released it: No fingerprints, no trace."

"You released the sauna! Before I could examine it? Lestrade!"

"There was nothing there, Sherlock. It's in use now. You can look at the crime scene in the back; in fact, we're going to do that first. This is Mr. Davis," he indicated the small civilian man who smiled ingratiatingly. "Hotel manager."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. Were the Doran women in the habit of taking a sauna at that time each day?"

Lestrade referred to his notes. "Yes, before lunch and dinner. Making sure they could fit into their clothes for the wedding."

"I see." Sherlock took out his mobile and began to text.

XXXXX

Molly was pulling warm linens from the drier when her text alarm chirped. _What are you doing?–SH_.

_Laundry-Molly_

_Come to the London Texas Friendly hotel at once-SH. _

_Why?-Molly_

_Case-SH _

She stared at her mobile. Texas Friendly-? Did this have to do with those Americans last night? The news had reported that three of them had gone missing. _What will I do?-Molly_

_Listen and sweat-SH _ Molly quickly lowered the device, glancing around her. No one had seen. Several responses came to mind; of these, "Pardon?" seemed the most appropriate. She was about to key this in when her alarm chirped once more: _Monitor conversations in a sauna. Ring when you are here-SH_

Ah.

XXXXX

The back of the Texas Friendly hotel was far plainer than the front, John noted: Pipes and graffiti, the only ornamentation. Sherlock was speaking quietly to Mr. Davis as Lestrade led them all to the alleyway service entrance, currently blocked with police tape and sprinkled with crime scene indicators.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. She would be welcome. I'll see to the keycard immediately." Mr. Davis turned to the whole group, smiling meekly. "All our laundry is handled centrally, so our facilities here are limited; the basement is used for storage only. The central office sends lorries to collect and deliver the laundry once each day; usually by eight o'clock each morning. There is a camera, but as you can see-" He indicated the CCTV camera at the end of the alley, the lens covered with red paint.

"When did this happen?" asked Sherlock.

"Half five last night."

With a glance at Lestrade, "Curious, that."

"Yes," answered Lestrade. "They blacked it out ahead of time to throw us off. Fortunately, the call from Cynthia fixes our time of abduction to eight-forty five. Okay, look." Lestrade lifted the tape and led them all underneath. "We did have some trace left in the mud from yesterday afternoon's rain. The getaway vehicle, a van, stopped here, and at least four individuals, three men and one woman got out and entered the building; the lock was picked. Then all four returned, presumably carrying the women: We have one partial footprint, here," he pointed-

Oh- Lestrade's voice faded as John gazed: A smudged big toe; two smaller toes; a line of the pad; a curve of the heel- John felt his back stiffen; it was wrong, this: A woman's smeared footprint in a London alley in cold April- "Whose print?"

Lestrade broke off and stared at John, then glanced at his notebook. "Uh, Deenie Doran, we believe. The size is consistent with her slipper."

Deenie. Okay.

"What's this?" Sherlock was pointing to a small wheel track leading from the building to the print.

Mr. Davis peered at it. "That is from a laundry cart, Mr. Holmes. From yesterday morning."

"Yesterday morning? When everything else had been washed away? Seems a bit odd."

Lestrade frowned. "You think they took the women out in the cart? No. The carts aren't big enough for three adult women. And why would they do that when no one was in the sauna?"

"Ah, well." Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing, then. I believe we have the family to interview?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered with a half smile, "Sherlock, being dead seems to have made you slip a bit."

"Apparently so," replied Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4: Little Birds and Whoppers

Sweet Fire

Chapter 4: Little Birds and Whoppers

_…running on like the babbling river itself._

_-Kenneth Grahame_

On the lift, Lestrade explained that because the penthouse suite was a crime scene, Al Doran had moved to the suite next to Cynthia's parents on the floor below. The other two suites on that floor were Victoria and Deenie's, now also crime scenes; all would be released soon.

As they entered Al's suite, John spied Lord St. Simon standing with an older couple in velour jumpsuits: Lavender for her; blue for him. Slumped in a chair was a rumpled civilian man, who peered up at them and asked, "This that detective you were talking about Roger?" He had an American accent, sounding rather like George W. Bush.

Nodding, Lord St. Simon made the introductions, "May I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his associate, Dr. John Watson. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Aloysious Doran."

"Call me Al," drawled the man, raising a hand in greeting.

"And Merle and Earlene, Cynthia's parents." The older couple nodded.

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade. "I must examine the suites of our victims, but first, I will speak with Mr. Doran, alone."

"Then Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I go?" Lord St. Simon sounded irritable. "I had little sleep last night. My flat is literally around the corner; I can be here instantly." Lestrade nodded and led him and Cynthia's parents into the corridor.

At that moment, Sherlock's mobile rang, and he answered, "Yes. Good. There is a key card for you at the front desk-"

John found himself admiring at the décor: Hard wood floors covered with rag rugs; antiqued furniture; pictures of broken down barns and rusted windmills standing in prairies sprinkled with blue flowers. He caught Al's eye. "This is nice. Homey."

"Yeah." Al glanced around and gave a brief smile. "All made in America."

"-By sweat shops using stolen foreign workers, according to the indictments." Sherlock took the chair across from Al. "Mr. Doran, we have a kidnapping to discuss."

XXXXX

Molly invented a story as she wrapped the towel around herself and entered the crowded sauna: She had met Deenie at University, became friends- Completely unnecessary.

"Gave me a turn, it did. To think they were in this very room, just yesterday!" The sweating women were of all ages.

"Awful!"

"Those Americans! Too trusting, if you ask me. Always smiling! It's a wonder it didn't happen before!"

"Poor Lord St. Simon! He must be devastated, poor man!"

"Ah, can you imagine? After all that, to have his bride snatched away!"

"Devastated at losing his purse, I warrant."

"Oh for shame!"

"Hush-Psh!"

"It's true! I heard! The duke is two steps from the poorhouse!"

"Do you know who I suspect? That Flora Millar."

"No!"

"Who is Flora Millar?"

"St. Simon's mistress and a juicy bit, so they say. Got a temper, that one! And she ran with a rough crowd in her day. Word is she's none too pleased at this engagement. She might have called in a favor-"

"Ooh! Terrible!" The women turned to shaking their heads and clucking.

Someone ventured: "Didn't the women have guns? They were Americans."

"Yes! They all carry guns, don't they?"

"No!"

"Oh, yes."

"And they were from Texas! They sell guns in supermarkets there. Next to the tomatoes!" A stunned silence, followed by a general tittering.

"Oh, no!"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Really!"

"They couldn't, could they?"

"They wouldn't have guns in a sauna! Where would they hide them?"

"And, they couldn't take guns on the aeroplane, could they! They have rules about that."

"That's the problem, then, isn't it! Those Americans! Dependent on their guns! Take them away and they're babes in the wood!"

"Too trusting!"

"Well, now, they weren't trusting yesterday, were they? I heard that Cynthia ask the matron where the head of security's office was."

"Her husband owns the hotel, doesn't he? Shouldn't she have asked him?"

"Well he wouldn't know the offices in every single hotel, would he?"

"Ach, no one's safe anymore!"

Molly shook her head. No one was.

XXXXX

Al crossed his arms. "I'll tell you what-"

"Tell me what happened last night, if you are still interested in finding your family."

Al sighed, slumped back, pulled a hand across his mouth, then dropped it to his lap. Dammit, Cynthia! Always so complicated! "I got a call from Cynthia-"

"When?"

"I went over this with the officer." That guy-What was his name? Sherman? Shelby? God, he was pale-just looked at him. Yeah, okay. "Before nine. Well, you were there, weren't you? You gave Roger your card. How'd you know something had happened?"

"I have an ear for inconsistencies. You received a call-?"

"Yeah, I got a call. Deenie had seen something that they thought Roger would like and they wanted to know what I thought. So I went to this store-"

"Where?"

"Oh, hell- Just around the corner from here. Jewelry store. It was a pair of cufflinks, or a tie clip, or something. I never saw it because they never showed up. I waited about forty-five minutes; maybe an hour in front-"

"Fifty minutes; from 9:05 to 9:55. CCTV confirms it." That cop, Lestrade, was reading from his notes. Good.

"Yeah. Anyway, Roger and everybody came back from dinner and we all went back to the hotel; to the penthouse. Cynthia's stuff was there, but she was gone. We looked everywhere. I got the manager to let me into Deenie and Victoria's suites: Same thing. Their stuff was there; they were gone. Damnedest thing. We called the police- I've been up all night."

Lestrade spoke up, "We went through the suites, Sherlock; Cynthia and Victoria's hand bags, passports, mobiles and credit cards were all there. Deenie's bag and mobile were there, but her cards and passport were missing. We'll be searching her flat within the hour."

That guy-Sherlock-nodded and turned back to Al, "Did you go directly to this shop?"

"Yeah-"

"No stops along the way?"

"Well-" Al frowned, his heart thumping.

"Yes. Think carefully Mr. Doran, because, yes, I was there. Behind you when you ordered the cab to take you, not to a shop, but to the hotel with a 'quick stop'."

"I didn't remember the name of the damn store! Neither did Cynthia! It was next to the hotel-Okay, so I did go into the hotel first and asked the concierge where the store was. "

"What was the 'quick stop'?"

"A drug store." his mind racing, "I had a headache; I had to get some aspirin."

"And where is this aspirin?"

"Bathroom."

That Sherlock leaned toward him, "What did you mean by 'Brownsville'?" Al's heart stopped. "You said it into your mobile as you stepped into the cab." When Sherlock repeated, "Mr. Doran?" the best Al could come up with was:

"The thing. In the shop- The jewelry store. It reminded Deenie of something she had seen in Brownsville once. In Texas."

That creep stared at him. Finally, "What enemies did you and Cynthia have?"

Al crossed his arms, "Nobody who would do this!" Quiet again. Damn. "It's a competitive business. Everyone wants a piece of you or to bury you, but never- " he shook his head.

"You and Cynthia were co-CEOs. How did you divide your duties?"

Leaning back and dropping his arms, "Oh, we pretty much shared the job. I guess I was more in charge of property acquisitions and development, while Cynthia handled the operations and personnel; but we made all of our decisions together."

"I see." Sherlock stood. "Do we have recent pictures?"

Al nodded. "Yeah, I gave them to-"

"I have them." Lestrade handed the folder over. "You can keep those, Sherlock. They're extras. Are you done with Mr. Doran?"

"Yes. For the time being."

Thank God.

XXXXX

Sulky man, but John could sympathize: He had been up all night and had lost his entire family. Lestrade was speaking to Sherlock, "Okay, could you hang on a minute? I want to close things up so Mr. Doran here can get some sleep."

At that moment, Sherlock's mobile rang; he handed the photos to John and stepped into the lavatory saying, "Good. Come to the penultimate story-"

John opened the folder. Cynthia Doran was first: A head shot of a smiling, older but attractive woman with frosted blonde hair piled on her head, wearing sparkling jewels. Next, Victoria Doran: The head and torso of a heavily made up red-headed girl in her late teens, dressed in an electric blue mini-dress-Rather well endowed!-her thick hair pulled over to one side and tied. Finally, Deenie Doran: A head shot of a blonde young woman wearing little make-up, looking directly at the camera and smiling so that her entire face was glowing. This was the owner of the footprint in the mud outside-

"John." Sherlock was at the door. "Come. We have a crime scene to examine. Lestrade, I want Al's mobile number, and would it be all right if another colleague of mine joined us to look at the suites?"

XXXXX

Deenie struggled to focus her eyes. She appeared to be in the same hospital bed as before, but this time-Oh!-she couldn't sit up. There was a strap across her chest and her hands were tied-

"Deenie?" The voice was coming from her left. "We're so glad you're waking up, dear. Wonderful." British.

"Where-?"

"You're in a recovery room. And doing quite well." It was a woman in yoga clothes; the nurse was behind her.

"Recovery?" Deenie tried again to sit up.

"Oh, dear." The woman lay a hand on Deenie's shoulder. "Yes, you've had a bit of a bad reaction to the anesthesia. The straps are for your protection; just until you are completely stable."

Deenie stared. Protection? She had been at the computer; someone gave her a shot- "I was kidnapped! My mother- My sister-!"

"They're fine, dear, fine. You weren't kidnapped; you came quite voluntarily-Enthusiastically, actually. Sometimes people have reactions to the anesthesia: Amnesia, false paranoid memories; have you seen any exciting films, lately? Perhaps with a kidnapping scene?"

Deenie thought. Had she? She couldn't remember. "I had anesthesia?"

"Yes. You've had a bit of surgery." Oh, her nose! Deenie crossed her eyes, looking down: The bandage was still there. The woman continued, "You are healing quite nicely, though. We'll have you up and about in no time."

"My mother-"

"Yes, dear. Your mother sent you here. She's very excited and loves you very much." This made no sense at all.

"My wedding! I have so much to do-"

"That's just it, dear. Now, Nurse Toller is going to give you an injection: It will relax you; help you sleep." Deenie felt a prick in her arm. "As for the wedding, your mother will handle all the details. She knows how stressful planning an event like this can be and wanted to give you the best present of all: The assurance that everything is going to be perfect, and you will be relaxed and beautiful." Oh. Deenie sank back into the pillow with a feeling of relief mixed with an overwhelming desire to cry. That sounded just like Mama.


	5. Chapter 5: That Old Black Magic

Sweet Fire

Chapter 5: That Old Black Magic

_…he wondered if being a Faithful Knight meant that you just went on being faithful without being told things._

_-A.A. Milne_

John checked the time as they left the suite: Almost eleven. In truth, he was starting to regret having to go, even to meet Rebecca. The footprint weighed on him, and now a face to go with it- No. He took a deep breath. He had been over this with his therapist: He must separate from Sherlock; be the hero of his own story. Sherlock had adequate support; he would be fine. And yet- John frowned. And yet-

In the corridor, a woman appeared to be waiting for them: Molly Hooper, drinking a bottle of water- Molly Hooper! John seized Sherlock's arm and pulled him back into the suite, out of earshot. "What the hell is she doing here?" he hissed. "I thought-"

"What did you think?"

John struggled with the words. "I thought you had agreed not to put her in harm's way again!"

"This is hardly dangerous, John. She knows my methods, as do you, and may have insights when we examine our victims' things."

"You're playing with fire, Sherlock. You know why!" Sherlock met his eye with a long, level gaze. John sighed. "Fine. If you- If you both want to stick your heads in hornets' nests, it is not my concern." Abruptly, he returned to the corridor and nodded to Molly. "Good to see you, Molly."

She smiled uncertainly and spoke to Sherlock, "Cynthia Doran was looking for security yesterday. She didn't tell anyone in the sauna why."

"Interesting." Sherlock turned to Mr. Davis. "Did she speak with someone from security?"

Mr. Davis was distinctly uncomfortable. "She left a message for Mr. Corbin, our head of security, at two o'clock yesterday afternoon, but-"

"She did?" Glaring, Lestrade stepped forward. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Looking ready to sink into the ground, Mr. Davis stammered, "We- Mr. Corbin rang her back, but she didn't pick up. We assumed it was about the wedding. The hotel is hosting the reception breakfast."

Lestrade spoke quietly to the uniformed officer then turned back to Mr. Davis. "I'm rather disappointed to have learned of this in this manner."

"Fascinating that we have all learned of this in this manner." Sherlock glanced at Molly. "We are going to examine the suites. Come along; we could use your eyes." As the group started for the lift, he moved next to her and began to speak softly. John heard enough to determine that Sherlock was relating what they had learned so far, but he was, in John's opinion, unnecessarily close. John edged away from the pair. Not his concern.

XXXXX

As Mr. Davis opened the penthouse door, Sherlock turned to Lestrade and pointed to the key card. "I must have one of those. A master."

Lestrade nodded, and Mr. Davis handed the card to Sherlock. "Take this one, sir."

Tiresome Lestrade cleared his throat. "You'll be handing that back when the investigation is over, Sherlock."

"Oh, it's quite all right sir," said Mr. Davis. "We can decommission it remotely, although it would be kind-"

"Any card can be reprogrammed remotely?" Sherlock stared at the card.

"Yes sir," replied Mr. Davis. "But the computer system is highly restricted, sir. Quite secure."

"I must review the key card records."

"Of course, sir. I assure you: The hotel is cooperating in every possible way."

"The records are downstairs, Sherlock." Lestrade signaled to an officer. "I'll have them brought up."

They entered the penthouse suite: Purbeck stone fireplace; red deer skull on the wall; elk antler chandelier. Sherlock turned to Mr. Davis. "Cynthia Doran's dressing room?"

"This way, sir." Mr. Davis led them through a door, down a hallway and into a dressing room connected to a walk-in closet, toilet and bath. In the closet were ten evening gowns (two dark blue, three gold, a sequined silver, a red, two cream, a purple); four pair of slacks (red, orange, neon green, purple); eight shirts (two red silk, a sequined copper and gold with matching skirt, two sequined gold, a sequined cream with matching skirt, a blue linen, a purple silk); and five skirts (red leather, orange linen, yellow linen, green brocade, blue paisley). Each item was hung to face the same direction; the spacing slightly irregular-

"This is-" Molly was staring, mouth open "-wonderful! A rainbow!"

"Try not to drool, Molly. It spoils the upholstery." Sherlock stepped in and opened a few drawers: Three knit shirts (bright yellow, metallic silver, metallic burgundy); one pair of cranberry jeans; four pair of socks (yellow, green, orange, blue); three pair of knickers (two red, one blue; all quite lacy); four slips (yellow, pink, red and blue paisley); four bras (two yellow, a purple paisley, a bright blue). All neatly folded; light items to the front.

"She liked bright colors." John was glancing about.

"Yes." Molly's eyes narrowed. "Where are the neutrals?"

Sherlock smiled briefly and turned to Lestrade. "Where is Cynthia Doran's personal maid?"

"Ah," Lestrade consulted his notebook, "the ladies shared a maid; she left yesterday evening to visit relatives in Scotland. We're trying to locate her. She's to return Tuesday when the hairdresser and makeup artist arrive."

"Convenient." muttered Sherlock.

Mr. Davis nodded, "Yes she was, sir. In a standard room, just two stories down-"

"That's not what I meant."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, we can't know if anything is missing; we have no idea how many items of clothing Cynthia brought and the very person who could tell us this has disappeared. The one place I guarantee that maid isn't is Scotland."

Lestrade crossed his arms. "Sherlock, we searched the maid's room; some clothes and things were there, but her passport, bag and toiletries were missing. What are you saying? Al Doran said things weren't disturbed. Wouldn't he know?"

"Oh, he knows a great deal-" Sherlock began, then spied something in a corner: A heavy square sided box with multiple latches. He lifted it onto the table and unlatched it: Cosmetics- He gave a cry.

"What is it?" John leaned in, Molly at his side.

"Oh!" exclaimed Molly.

"Yes," replied Sherlock.

"What?" John was looking from one to the other.

"This array, John." Sherlock indicated the lipsticks. "The tubes are arranged by hue and saturation: Red, coral, mauve, skin tone; light to dark; a line of mattes, followed by the same line of frosted. But four slots on the bottom are empty, and the tubes that should be there are placed in random spots: Two in the reds, one in the mauve, one in a lighter skin tone."

"Okay, so they are out of order." John frowned. "What does it mean?"

"No. The empty slots were filled so the voids wouldn't be obvious, but kidnappers wouldn't-" The officer holding the key car records entered, and Lestrade and Mr. Davis stepped aside to examine them.

"Sherlock, look at this." Molly pointed up at the shelf. Seven hard sided roller bags in gold brush: Two thirty inch, two twenty-six inch, three twenty-two inch- Oh. That was telling.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was calling, "The key card records have been purged. We have no idea who came into this suite or any suite before ten o'clock last night."

"Of course not. Very clever."

"All right now." Lestrade was looking at him. "If you know something, you must share."

"I haven't all the pieces yet. We must go to the other suites."

XXXXX

As Lestrade and the officer went with the flustered Mr. Davis to review the purging protocol- "I don't understand it! The records are purged after seventy two hours; it's been barely fourteen!" -John followed Sherlock and Molly down to Victoria's suite, identical to Al's.

Sherlock went immediately to the closet. "Ah."

"Hm." said Molly, thoughtfully.

"Um-" John stared. Like Cynthia's closet, all was carefully arranged, but Victoria's clothes filled barely half of her walk-in, which was smaller than Cynthia's.

"Fascinating." Sherlock was looking up at the shelf.

"What is it?"

"The luggage. Come, we must see Deenie's suite." He turned quickly and left, followed by Molly. Luggage? John peered: Six hard sided roller cases-Wow! They had the Paris skyline painted on them. Sherlock called from the front door, "Come on, John!"

John caught up to Molly in the corridor. "What did he mean about the luggage?"

"I'm not certain," she replied. "Her sets were complete."

"Sherlock!" John called; Sherlock paused at Deenie's suite door. "What did you mean about the luggage?"

Sherlock swiped the card and opened the door. "Too much luggage for the clothing present." He disappeared inside.

Deenie's closet was even sparser, and the clothes were not nearly as neatly hung or arranged. Both girls seemed to be fond of fluorescent colors! Not to be caught out again, John looked for the luggage: One roller case in gold brush. "She has the same kind of case as her mother," he recalled, proudly.

"It is her mother's," replied Sherlock, and Molly nodded.

"What?"

"Cynthia Doran has, predictably, three entire sets of hardback luggage in gold brush. In her closet were three twenty-two inch, but only two twenty-six inch and two thirty inch. And what have we here? A twenty-six inch roller case in gold brush!"

John stared, and shook his head. "So-?"

"She bolted?" asked Molly.

"No," answered Sherlock definitely. "The blacked out camera and footprint downstairs were all too real." He gazed at two pair of dainty pumps on a stand. "John, look at these shoes."

"Yes?" John stared at them. "Pumps, slightly worn, one pair in green-"

"The size, John. What size are they?"

John lifted a shoe. "American size six. Smallish. That's a European size-?"

"Thirty-six."

"Okay, smallish. What of it?"

"Deenie's footprint was at least a forty-two. A rather significant discrepancy."

"Okay. Again, what does it-"

"Ah!" Sherlock selected a shirt and held it out; Molly caught her breath. Sherlock glanced at John. "Did you notice?"

"Notice what?"

"In Victoria's closet! The matching skirt!" Rehanging the shirt, "Come. We must see Mr. Davis. They are here!" He was out before John could hit him with the shoe.

John caught up with them in the corridor and stood with his hands on his hips. "Sherlock! Who? Who is here?"

Sherlock stopped and turned. "Cynthia and Victoria, of course."

"What!"

With Molly at his side, Sherlock came to him and spoke softly, "This case has been about deceit upon deceit. These suites have been elaborately arranged to give the impression that three women have been kidnapped, when, in fact, we have evidence that only one, Deenie, has disappeared. Pains were taken to imply she left willingly, and then more pains taken to cover up that implication. Victoria has too much luggage; Deenie's suitcases are missing. The clothes presently in Deenie's closet were hung by someone other than the maid, and they are not hers: The size, style, and color choices are all consistent with the clothing in Victoria's suite; the shoes are far too small for Deenie, but would fit Victoria. They even broke a skirt and blouse set; an error caused by the haste in which the switch was done, no doubt."

"The kidnappers packed Deenie's things when she was in the sauna," Molly was thinking aloud.

Sherlock nodded. "That's why they blacked out the camera at half five. They were waiting for her to go in so they could steal her keycard. One returned it while the others packed; she went into her suite completely unaware."

"They were waiting in the room."

"With a laundry cart."

"Hang on!" John put up his hand. "Who's 'they'? And who switched Victoria's clothes?"

Sherlock turned to him again. "Okay. Suppose all three women left the sauna in time for dinner: Between half six and seven o'clock. They entered their suites, and Deenie was whisked away in the laundry cart by kidnappers. When Victoria and Cynthia are ready to go, Deenie is not there. Cynthia and Victoria enter her suite somehow and find it cleaned out, Deenie gone, only one slipper remaining. At this point they either know she has been kidnapped or believe she has bolted, but their response is to make it look as though all three women have been stolen: They excuse the maid; put Deenie's slipper and both of Cynthia and Victoria's slippers and their robes in the sauna; shift clothing to give the appearance that Deenie hadn't bolted; pack a few items-our missing neutrals-and hide their voids. Victoria's luggage is too distinctive, so they use one of Cynthia's thirty inch roller bags for themselves and a twenty-six inch to supply Deenie's room. It is the only explanation that fits all of the facts."

For a moment, John felt it all click-Ah!-then it flew apart. "Why would Cynthia and Victoria do that?"

Sherlock sighed. "I haven't enough data: They were either afraid of being kidnapped themselves, or were trying to buy themselves time to find her."

"But- That's-" John felt his head spinning.

"There's more evidence: Al's behavior, for example. He chose not to tell us that Cynthia had wanted to talk with security, indicating that he knew more about the threat than he was willing to share; and what was that stop on the way to the hotel? The aspirin in his toilet had been purchased in America; most likely, the stop was for something to aid the women's escape. Al must have left it for them when he was asking the hotel clerk about the shop. And the key cards; only someone very high in management has the authority to redesignate a key card or purge the records."

"You think Al- He couldn't have, Sherlock! He didn't have time to muck about with the cards. His movements are all recorded on CCTV; we even have his key card entrance into the penthouse at ten o'clock. "

"Not him. Her. Cynthia. They were co-CEOs, and Cynthia was in charge of the operations. She knew the system and could do the work. And she and Victoria had plenty of time to shift clothing, even without the help of the maid-" Sherlock caught his breath. "The maid!"

"What about the maid?"

"Not the person; her room!" Sherlock turned and strode toward the lift.

If John ran quickly, he could tackle- "Lestrade said he searched the maid's room!"

"Not _her_ room-"

"Mr. Hol- Holmes?" One of the suite doors was open and the older woman in the lavender jumpsuit-Earlene-was peering out at them; her husband-Merle-was behind her. "Could you come in here? We think we might know something, but we don't want Al-" she glanced fearfully at Al's door. John followed Sherlock inside; Molly came after.

In the suite, everyone sat quietly; Merle and Earlene were tense, glancing at each other. "Yes?" asked Sherlock. They all looked at him. "Well?"

Merle began. "Can we keep this-um-quiet? We didn't want to tell the police and make it official or nothing." Everyone nodded. "It was a couple of days ago. We were on the elevator. Some people were talking about uh-" He glanced at Earlene.

"A uh- an ex-girlfriend of Roger. Kind of a rough-"

"She's been eliminated." Sherlock stood. "Thank you!"

"Naw! There's uh-" Merle sighed loudly. "It got us thinking. You see, Deenie- Deenie-"

"Al is not actually Deenie's father." Earlene was looking at her hands. "He adopted her, but she was two when Cyndee and Al got married. Roger doesn't know, and someone may have found out-"

"Who is her biological father?" Sherlock was standing behind his chair, hands on the back.

Earlene shrugged. "We're not sure. Cyndee got involved with a group when we lived in Waco- It wasn't good."

"Hell, it was a cult, Earlene. Come on!" Merle waved a hand in the air. "The guy was a snake handler for Christ's sake."

"It's gone now. The leader was arrested ten years ago."

"He was a damn pimp!"

"Anyway, Cyndee left after Deenie was born. We moved to Houston, and she met Al-"

"Thank you so much! We'll be on our way." Sherlock stepped to the door. "John, Molly. Come along."

"You'll keep it a secret, won't you? About Deenie?" Earlene looked anxiously at John and Molly. "Roger doesn't know."

John nodded. "It's good you told us. We'll keep it quiet, but it may be relevant. Thank you both." He and Molly followed Sherlock out.

In the corridor, John's mobile rang. Looking down, he groaned. "It's a quarter to one!" Answering, "Hi. Sorry. I got caught up with something. … No, no, nothing- … All right, yes. Quite soon." He ended the call and turned to Sherlock. "I must go."

Sherlock frowned. "You're already late, can't you stay? Tennis and bridge? A girl has been kidnapped!"

"No." John handed him the folder with the photos. "You have the police, and I made a promise. I'm going now. Good luck to you." He marched to the lift and poked the button with his thumb. As he was waiting, he glanced at Sherlock. "You will keep me informed? What happens? Perhaps, I can- later-"

"Of course."

The lift arrived and John stepped in. As the doors were closing, he saw Sherlock turn to Molly: Sherlock's expression- softened. Not exactly a smile, just- The doors pulled shut, and the lift slid down with a sigh. John closed his eyes. Sherlock's life was Sherlock's, not his. Never his.


	6. Chapter 6: Little Badges

Sweet Fire

Chapter 6: Little Badges

_I've got a good job and I'm newly born.  
You should see me dressed up in my uniform._

_-Pete Townshend_

Molly watched John go with some misgiving. She could beg off and go home also; she didn't have plans for this weekend, not exactly, but John had a point: Sherlock wasn't alone anymore; he had the police, trained professionals. What more could she offer, really?

"Come." Sherlock turned back to the suite they had just left. "We have one more question for our jumpsuits." Molly turned and walked with him. Fine, okay, fine. A girl was in trouble; doing laundry wouldn't help at all. Besides-she glanced at the tall figure striding alongside her- It was hard not to be drawn in.

The door was opened by a frowning Earlene. Behind her, Merle was talking on his mobile so loudly, any conversation was pointless. "Well, hell, Al, okay dinner, but we got to stay in our room till then? We're hungry! … Room service? Naw, it's way too much for what you get. … Well, yeah okay, but they take too damn long anyway and, like I said, I'm hungry. Earlene too; we're both hungry-Why can't we just go on down to that diner-… Naw, I wouldn't. I wouldn't say nothing to no reporters… Yeah, but, Gordy, that cook, he knows how I like my-…He does? … Would you do that for me? Well, thank you man, that's mighty-…Yeah, with extra pickles and mayo. Earlene! You want that mexi-burger again?"

"Yeah, with a side salad."

"Al, she wants that mexi-burger and a side salad. Tell them it's for Merle and Earlene-they know how I like it-and put a rush on it. Thank you, Buddy! You're a good man!" Merle closed the mobile. "That Al, he's going to call it in and put a rush on it. They'll bring it right here- Well! Hi there! You're back!" The last was delivered with a beaming smile at Molly and Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked. "Yes."

"Can we help you?"

Sherlock stood, gazing blankly. Molly smiled uneasily and glanced at him. "Sherlock?"

He caught his breath. "Oh, yes. Could you examine these photographs?" He handed the folder to Merle who, with Earlene, flipped through them. Peering over his shoulder, Molly looked also: Cynthia, Deenie and Victoria's faces all had that odd overly symmetrical look of multiple cosmetic surgeries.

Earlene frowned at the photos, then gave Sherlock a hard stare. "Who gave these to you?"

"Al Doran."

"Naw, that ain't right." Merle threw a hand up. "That Al. He's a good man, but Gol! What's he doing?"

"What is it?"

"They- They don't look like that no more! Well, Deenie, she looks like that. Hell, Earlene took that picture at the airport when we got here. Right before her battery died. But these other two: They were taken at Christmas! They've had stuff done since then; you know, for the wedding. Cyndee, now her lips are big-she got them shots-and she got a chin lift, and her eyes done, so she's all-" Merle opened his eyes widely. "And Vickie, she-" He looked at Earlene and shook his head.

"She went lighter-hair, I mean. Now she's kind of a strawberry blonde. She was wearing brown contacts in that picture, but now a days, she's blue. And, she also had those, um, implants-cheek implants, and on her chin. And then she went up a size or two. " Earlene indicated her chest. "Here."

Snorting, Merle shook his head again. "Yeah, Cyndee and Deenie had all them implants done before- I don't know why they keep on doing that junk." He handed the folder back to Sherlock. "It was that damn tribe!"

"Tribe?"

"That group in Waco. Looking good was- Cyndee always says she has to because of the business, and she gets the girls to do it too. But hell! They made the chain work because of sweat, not silicone."

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock was nodding. "Hard workers?"

"Hell, yeah." Merle nodded back vigorously. "They did everything in those first couple places: Rooms, front desk, diner- We have pictures of Deenie-two years old!-cleaning the floor. Cyndee, she set it all up; all them, you know, systems: Room reservations, maintenance, billing. She figured out what had to be done; then they all did it. It worked just perfect. Real reliable. Got real popular with business people. A hell of a worker."

"Ah." Sherlock was again gazing blankly.

"Well," said Molly. "Thank-"

"Do you know the room number of the maid?" Now Sherlock was staring. "Of Cynthia, Victoria and Deenie's personal maid?"

"Doreen? Sure." Merle glanced beside him. "Uh-Earlene? What room was Doreen in?"

"F. Yeah, F-28. Downstairs."

"Thank you." Sherlock turned on his heel and trotted to the lift. With a quick smile and nod, Molly followed him.

When the lift arrived, Sherlock stepped in and pressed the button to the lobby. Frowning, Molly asked, "Sherlock? Why are we going to the lobby?"

"We must visit the café."

"Are we having lunch?"

"Oh." Sherlock glanced at her. "If you like. Mostly we are searching for hotel employees: An older woman with wide eyes, or a younger one with unnaturally large breasts."

XXXXX

Regular, regular, regular, decaf, decaf-needs more water. "Would you like a refresh on the hot water for your tea?" New customers: Three adults, two kids. Kids' menus, crayons, "I'm Amy and I'll be your server this afternoon. Can I get you something to drink? Okay. I'll be right back to take your order." Regular, regular, decaf, regular, more butter and rolls. "My accent? Thank you! No, no, but my mother was American. They train us really well here at Texas Friendly." Tip! Order up! Table 10: BBQ chicken burger for red shirt, Halloumi burger (what is that?) for green sweater. "Enjoy your meal- More catsup? Yes sir." Water, water, water, water, catsup. New customers: Lydia's section. Tip! Regular, regular-New customers looking at her-Lydia! New customers! Tip! Tip! Diana needs to grab her tip- "What can I get for you today?" Yankee pig dog, blueberry pancakes (served all day!), side of baked beans. Baked beans and pancakes. Gross.

XXXXX

"I can't see her- anatomy, but that waitress has had a lot of work done on her face." Molly nodded to the girl pouring coffee across the cafe. "Short black hair; the busy one."

"You mean the one with the reading glasses, expensive American shoes, professionally shaped eyebrows and manicured fingernails, and wretched haircut and dye job? That one? I was eying her myself." Sherlock turned back to Molly. "Hair dye. Scissors. Glasses. Gifts from Al."

"They're working here? Right under everyone's noses?"

"It's brilliant actually. No one expects them to be in uniforms; they've altered their appearances enough to avoid detection, and it gives them free range of the hotel."

"Do we approach her?"

"Not yet. She's working the lunch shift and will be on for a bit. We must find out-" He peered around to the manager's office.

"Might I eat lunch?"

"Of course." He returned to her. "Mr. Davis is not in his office presently."

Their waitress took Molly's order. As they waited, Molly tried to make sense of it all: Kidnapped girl; no ransom note; clothes missing. It was the missing clothes that niggled most. "Why would someone want to give the impression that Deenie had bolted?"

"Buying themselves time, most likely. Perhaps to shame the family." Glancing at her, "What do you think happened?"

Molly frowned. "It could be a family feud or business dispute of some sort. An old boyfriend of Deenie's? Or Cynthia-Perhaps Deenie's father? It could have to do with Lord St. Simon: Someone who doesn't like British royalty marrying Americans; Flora Millar was the favored culprit in the sauna."

"We have many unlikely scenarios and not enough data."

"The handbag left in Deenie's suite-"

"Cynthia or Victoria's, most likely. Surely these women own more than one bag. Don't you?"

"But the mobile; why wouldn't the kidnappers take that?"

Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "Why didn't they?"

"They were afraid she would get at it?"

"No. Mobiles are equipped with GPS devices. Anything the kidnappers did with it-destroy it, abandon it-would have been suspicious or give away Deenie's location. Leaving it wasn't ideal, but it was the best option. It's what I would have done."

They lapsed back into silence, and Molly took to watching Victoria. After a few minutes: "Amazing."

"Yes?"

"Victoria. She's- good."

Sherlock turned and regarded Victoria flying to her tables with a pitcher of water. "Good-?"

"Well, it's odd, isn't it? The family has money and servants, presumably. Yet here she is, serving people; anticipating their wants. She's- Right at home, somehow."

Sherlock watched a moment more, then returned to Molly. "She has experience placating people. Our jumpsuits said they had Deenie scrubbing floors at age two. Says something about the girls' upbringing."

"A two year old scrubbing floors. That says something indeed."

XXXXX

They had been waiting for him. Regis' heart pounded when he returned from lunch and saw them. People from the central office were usually more polished, but- "Of course the hotel is doing all it can to aid the police in this investigation and to present an appropriate picture to the public." That 'detective', Sherlock Holmes, and his 'associate', Molly Hooper, stared at him blankly. Fearing he would hang himself with his own words, Regis closed his mouth.

Finally, Mr. Holmes spoke, "Mr. Davis, we asked about recent employees. Have you hired any new employees?"

Regis nodded knowingly. "The central office is generous. We at the London branch appreciate how well the central office foresees upcoming needs. This foresight is what makes the Texas Friendly chain so viable."

All was quiet again. Mr. Holmes shifted in his seat and glanced at Miss Hooper. She met his eye and turned to Regis, "Can you explain your hiring process?"

"Well," Regis swallowed, "we make requests for employees, the central office assesses the requests based on their extensive knowledge of our traffic and client feedback, and they send us what we need. The central office takes care of everything." He smiled. Miss Hooper nodded and looked thoughtful. Mr. Holmes glowered.

"Did you request any new employees?" He was practically snarling.

"The central office-"

"Stop. Yes or no. Did you request new employees?"

Oh. Taking a quiet breath, "Yes." Regis forced his shoulders down and smiled.

Miss Hooper caught her breath. "The central office was generous! They sent you more than you had requested!"

"We at the London branch-"

"Whom did they send?" Mr. Holmes was sitting forward, poised.

Regis recited quickly, "We requested one maid. Central office sent us two excellent maids, Maria and Emily, and a wonderful café waitress, Amy."

"Wonderful!" smiled Miss Hooper. "We want their schedules and current locations."

Oh, no. His stomach churning, Regis crossed his arms. "I'm afraid I cannot divulge that information without a specific-"

"It's all right." Mr. Holmes lay a hand on Miss Hooper's arm. "We have what we need." Regis's shoulders melted. Then- "One last thing, Mr. Davis. Are the Doran's hairdresser and make-up artists to be across the hall or next door to their personal maid?"

Good God! His heart pounding anew, "On either side. We are holding the rooms-" His breath stopped. Were they to share a room?- But no. Mr. Holmes stood. Quaking with relief, Regis also stood and offered his hand. "Do let me know if there is anything else. We are always-"

"Right." Mr. Holmes turned and strode out, followed by Miss Hooper. Regis sagged back into his seat, exhaling. Right after work, he promised himself: A long, well-earned visit with Fi-Fi down at the Peacock Club. His toes clenched in anticipation.

XXXXX

"Sherlock!" Molly walked quickly to catch up. "We don't know where they are."

"The schedule was on the wall behind him: Victoria is off at three; Cynthia is either Maria, on floors one through five and off at three; or Emily, on floors six through ten and off at five. My money is on Emily."

XXXXX

Pop! The fluorescent ball came flying at John, and he instinctively pulled his racquet in front of his face. The resulting volley caused Peter to dash forward, scooping the ball up in an easy lob that Rebecca smashed into the back left corner, impossible to return. "Game, set and match to John and Rebecca!" called Peter. Rebecca's mother, Terry, and Peter approached the net and shook hands with John, grinning and catching his breath, and Peter kissed Rebecca's cheek. "Well done, sweetheart. Winners put away the equipment!"

"Okay, Dad. Thanks!" As Peter and Terry went inside, Rebecca glanced at John, still panting happily. "Are you all right?"

"Never better! I see I'll have to start working on my game!"

Rebecca nodded. "Let's go in." She bent to gather the balls. Rubbing his shoulder, John turned to help.

"Oh! Your shoulder! Tennis was a bad idea; we'll ice it immediately!" Rebecca took his arm and started walking him off the court. John stopped and gently retrieved his arm.

"I'm fine. Really."

"Of course you are. Of course."


	7. Chapter 7: A Mission

Sweet Fire

Chapter 7: A Mission

_'All right,' said Eeyore. 'We're going. Only Don't Blame Me.'_

_-A. A. Milne_

After interviewing that imbecile, Davis, Sherlock suggested he and Molly split up, each pursuing a task for which each was particularly suited: He, to penetrate Cynthia's cunning disguise; Molly, to be unnoticed while monitoring Victoria. However, halfway through his search of the eighth floor, Sherlock's text alarm sounded:

_Cynthia is Maria-In lobby now!-Molly_

Texting as made his way to the lift: _Certain?-SH_

_Yes! On lift!-Molly_

Couldn't be. Still- The lift door opened to a Hispanic looking woman in her forties: Expensive American shoes, black slacks, gray jumper, poorly dyed black hair, spray on tan, one of the missing reds on her mouth- She started forward, and Sherlock blocked her in. "No, Maria, or shall I say, Cynthia? To the 28th. We have much to discuss."

In E-28, Cynthia moved to the window, and Sherlock positioned himself near the door, saying, "Some introductions are in order. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective consulting with the police." She was silent, arms crossed. "All right. And you are Cynthia Doran, co-CEO of the Texas Friendly international hotel chain, and mother of Deenie Doran, a true kidnapping victim whose recovery you seem intent on preventing with your deceit and obfuscation."

At that moment, the door opened: Victoria.

"Ah! _Vickie_! Do come in!" Sherlock gestured for her forward, but Victoria's eyes were on her mother; she entered only when Cynthia nodded.

Sherlock took out his mobile. "Shall we invite _Al_ and _Roger_?" As he was sending the texts, Molly arrived, closing the door behind her. Sherlock addressed the other women, now seated in armchairs. "My associate Molly Hooper. Now. The police will be informed that you are located and safe. However, what they are told beyond that depends on your cooperation."

At this, Cynthia loosened her arms. "How did you know it was me?"

Ah! Lipstick! Hair! Shoes! Sherlock opened his mouth- "The shape of your skull." Molly.

"The shape of my what?"

"Your skull. You tried to appear Hispanic, but you have a Caucasoid skull: Large brow ridge and receded zygoma-cheekbones; Hispanic people have Mongoloid or partially Mongoloid skulls: Small brow ridge, and projecting zygoma. Even with your cheek implants, you look like a Caucasian woman trying to look Hispanic. Quite obvious."

Sherlock blinked and folded his hands. "Yes. Quite."

XXXXX

Lord Roger was reviewing Sotheby's European ceramics catalogue-the auction was next month in Zurich; he should have a penny or two by then-when the text came in. _Come immediately E 28-SH. _E-28? Oh, right. The hotel. Deenie. Perhaps that Sherlock Holmes chap had hit upon something. Lord Roger sighed, closed his computer, went upstairs to change his clothes, performed some minor repairs to his hair and nails, returned downstairs to have a quick bite, donned his good warm coat (it was April, after all!), boots, hat, gloves and a scarf (but not that scarf, the other one), and, armed with a brelly, was on his way!

In the hotel, he enlisted the clerk to locate E-28 and rapped triumphantly on the door with his brelly handle. It was opened by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who smiled widely. "Lord St. Simon. How kind of you to pop in!"

"Thank you, I dropped everything! Have you found her?" He stepped in and stopped, appalled: Aloysious, on the bed; an unknown youngish woman-rather common-at the desk; and-Oh Lord!-Victoria! Her hair! And Cynthia! Brown as mud! "What in God's name-! Where is Deenie?"

"She is missing, Lord St. Simon." Mr. Holmes closed the door. "Mrs. Doran was just explaining that she was taken by a cult. They propped her door open with this." He held up a small plastic sheep. "Apparently, they worship Jason of the Argonauts."

"A cult! Good God!" Lord Roger glanced about desperately, but no chair was available. This was most inconvenient; he was on the verge of fainting!

"It's not exactly a cult anymore," offered Cynthia in a rather insolent tone. "Ten years ago Jason was indicted for procurement-being a pimp. He beat it, but-"

"Jason is a myth!" Lord Roger folded his arms: He wasn't stupid!

"The leader changed his name from Jephro to Jason." Impudent woman! She went on, "Anyway, he had to switch from running girls to running a spa. You know Jason's Place?"

Lord Roger caught his breath: Florrie wanted a facelift done there; it would cost him a bit.

Cynthia explained, "Used to be The Tribe of Jason. Got a huge glass building in Waco. Jason turned out to be a hell of a businessman when he thought with his head."

Mr. Holmes interjected, "What is Deenie's involvement?"

"Nothing. They took her because of me."

"Oh, God!" Aloysious was moaning, tears in his eyes!

"Al, come on." Cynthia reached over and held Aloysious' hand. "Cliff and his guys will be here in four days, a week at the most. We'll get her back, get her married and get her home."

"Oh, Daddy!" Victoria rushed to Aloysious and put her arms around him. Blessed girl! Lord Roger gratefully took her armchair, leaned back and closed his eyes as the sea of words swirled around him.

XXXXX

"Cliff?" asked Sherlock.

"My head of security," snapped Cynthia, and Molly was glad she was on the other side of the room. "He's coming to take care of this." Sherlock grew quite still. Cynthia continued, "Jason wanted to put clinics in our lobbies; do non-surgical treatments and sell their products. We didn't want the Texas Friendly brand associated with prostitution, so we turned them down flat a month ago."

"This is a business dispute?"

"Yes."

"No."

"That's all it is, Mr. Holmes! That contract would have skyrocketed them-"

"They resorted to kidnapping? This is how you do business in America?"

"No! But he can talk the stripes off a- They've got her in a spa!"

"Where?"

"Hell, I don't know. There are clinics and retreat centers all over. She could be anywhere."

"You know, I received an e-mail from Jason's Place. This morning. Quite early. Fancy that." Lord St. Simon was speaking from the armchair; head back, eyes shut. Somehow, Molly wasn't quite as impressed with him as she had been last evening.

Sherlock stared. "You received an e-mail?"

"Yes."

"Might you share the contents?"

St. Simon's brow crinkled slightly. "It was rubbish. Gibberish. I deleted it."

Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of him. "You deleted it."

"It was rubbish."

For a moment, Molly thought Sherlock would tip over the chair. Instead, "Did you empty your bin?"

"Mr. Holmes! I do not-"

"Your e-mail bin? Your deleted file?"

"Oh." St. Simon sighed, raised his head and fumbled in his pocket. "I don't believe I did." He removed his mobile, tapped on it and held it out for Sherlock, placid again. "Pure gibberish."

Taking the mobile, Sherlock moved to the desk, and Molly gave him her seat. Cynthia, Victoria and Al crowded around, but Sherlock threw up a hand, "Back, everyone. I cannot work when smothered." The Americans returned to their places; Molly moved to step away, but Sherlock held her arm. "Not you. Here." He handed her the mobile:

Eofwe hwlp mw! I'm in HOAPIRl, JAON'A pLx

Patricia Toller, Nurse

Jason's Place Retreat Center

Copper Beeches

Winchester

Sherlock was booting the room laptop. "What do you make of it?"

"Who is Patricia Toller?"

"Automatic signature. Good. You've hit on the most important part." He took back the mobile and laid it beside the laptop. "Deenie found a computer opened to an e-mail server and began this message, but was unable to review it before she was interrupted." He began typing.

Molly peered at the mobile. "It looks like 'e' has been replaced with 'w'. But-" She fell silent, frowning. Then, "This isn't a proper code; it's only half a code, really." She looked up. "Why would she write in code at all?"

Sherlock was gazing at her with a half smile. "She didn't. She simply misplaced her left hand."

XXXXX

From the laptop, Sherlock read: "'Roger help me! I'm in a hospital, Jason's Plac'", and explained, "All the letters she typed with her left hand were off by one; when she tried to strike the letter 'a', she struck the caps lock key. The result was a bit surprising, but rather simple to decipher." He watched Molly from the corner of his eye. Perhaps she would-

"Poor girl! She must have been hounded! Pity we couldn't get the message before now." This last sentence was delivered with a glance at St. Simon.

Sherlock sighed and typed _Jason's Place Spa Retreat Winchester_ into the browser. The web page featured a mansion built in 1792 on a wide expanse of lawn.

"Well, where is she?" Cynthia was standing, but sank back when Sherlock stared at her.

"She sent the message from the Jason's Place Spa and Retreat Center in Winchester."

"Winchester? I'll tell my guys." She reached for her mobile.

"You'll do nothing of the sort." Sherlock continued to explore the website as he spoke, "In fact, you'll cancel your little invasion force. Time to alert the proper authorities." E-mail logs: Request; request-

"Are you crazy!"

"The spa undoubtedly knows Deenie sent the e-mail; they will have moved her-"

"Then we waterboard everyone until they tell us where she is!"

At this, Sherlock turned to face her. "And just what is causing the delay of your men? Surely they have valid passports. Could it be they are locating arms?" Cynthia was silent, and Sherlock snorted. "What we want is intelligence. Something you Americans profoundly lack. The police-"

"You don't know these people, Mr. Holmes! They took her clothes to make it look like she wanted to go, and that's what they'll say happened. If Victoria and I hadn't disappeared too, everyone would have thought Deenie ran away! What evidence do you have she was actually kidnapped?"

Sherlock had no response.

"Footprint." Al, from the bed. "They found a footprint outside."

"A footprint. Great." Crossing her arms again, "Any way to prove it's Deenie's? Toe print?"

"When we recover her, she will-"

"It's a cult, Mr. Holmes! Selling ice cubes to Eskimos is what he does! They're probably converting her right now-"

"Enough." Sherlock turned back to the laptop and typed for a few minutes. "There. I have employed myself as an emergency janitor and grounds man, to begin Monday. Their system is much like yours: Everything controlled by a central office. Interesting, that." He took a quick glance behind him. "They have weekend and week-long retreats. Molly shall go as a client."

"Her?" Cynthia stared. "Is this some back handed trick to get her bigger-"

"We want a check for this amount," he named a figure and heard Molly gasp. "Made out to 'cash.' It will pay for Miss Hooper's retreat and compensate for her time and inconvenience." Cynthia was silent, and Sherlock faced her again. "Between Miss Hooper, Dr. Watson and myself, we may be able to locate Deenie and extract her without causing an international incident. Otherwise, we will be happy to inform Detective Inspector Lestrade fully of our latest developments."

"Pay the man, Al," Cynthia spoke in a low voice, and Al fumbled for his checkbook. "But no procedures! If she comes back with lips or tits-"

"Out. Everyone out." Sherlock pointed at the door. St. Simon snored softly.

"I mean it." Cynthia stood. "Not even a push-up sports bra."

"Wake him." Sherlock nodded at St. Simon, and Victoria shook his shoulder.

"Oh, Florrie! Lower, please." St. Simon opened his eyes. "Oh. Victoria."

"Come on Roger." Cynthia called from the door. "We're heading to Al's suite." St. Simon followed the women into the corridor as Al stood and ripped out a check.

"One last thing, Mr. Doran. What was 'Brownsville'?"

Al sighed. "A code Cynthia and the girls use to tell room numbers. You never know who's listening." He slapped the check on the desk and left.

XXXXX

John had just fetched more cakes-he was the dummy again-when Peter's mobile rang. "Oh. My brother- Hello, Will. … Yes eight o'clock tomorrow morning; have you got the van? Good! … Oh? Broke his arm? … Oh. So it's just us then. Is all of it going? Okay … Thank goodness for- … Oh, right, the armoire- Hang on a second. John?" Peter was smiling. "Are you free tomorrow?"

XXXXX

Sherlock rang the center with Molly's mobile, putting it on speaker. "Jason's Place Spa and Retreat center, The Copper Beeches, Winchester, will you hold please?" Before he could respond, syrupy music filled the air.

"Sherlock, why am I taking a spa if you will be working there?"

"There are places workmen wouldn't be allowed that clients-"

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I would like to book a week-long retreat for my wife."

"Yes, sir. Will she be having any procedures or treatments? Surgical procedures require pre-purchase. Non-surgical procedures can be purchased during the retreat, but are also available for pre-purchase at a reduced rate; treatments may be purchased only during the retreat, but can be reserved ahead of time."

"None of that."

"Very well, sir. And what date did you have in mind?"

"This upcoming week, of course."

"Sir, I'm afraid there is no week-long retreat available this week. There is a week-end retreat, but all of our retreats are fully booked for the next eight months. We could squeeze her in in January."

"January! That won't do at all." He ended the call and began typing furiously, accessing profiles and bookings.

Beside him, Molly shifted. "Will they really brainwash Deenie?"

"Based on the behavior of her sister, I would say her brain has all ready been thoroughly-Ah! Violet Hunter."

"Violet Hunter?"

"Your alias this weekend. Nanny, close to your age." He rang another number. "Hello, Miss Hunter?"

"Yes?"

"This is Jason's Place Spa Retreat, we regret to inform you that due to a backup in our sewage line-"

"Oh, now it's the sewer! Half an hour ago you were over-booked!" Sherlock caught Molly's eye.

"We do apologize, madam-"

"In another minute the whole place will have been abducted by aliens! Fine. You are determined not to allow me to come this week-end. My employers are taking me to Peru for six weeks Monday next, so I cannot come to one of the midweek make up sessions, and I will not wait until January!"

It took some doing: Molly scribbled notes and finally took over the call, but Violet accepted an alternate July booking at the center in Aylesbury. Sherlock hacked in and, using Molly's credit card, made the arrangements; then handed Molly Al's check. "I have forwarded you Violet's materials. Curious. Most of the sessions have eight to ten participants; the one you are going to has four, including you."

"They have been rescheduling people. Sherlock, Deenie is there still!"

"Yes, but why have a retreat at all?" Sherlock frowned. "We must pay a visit."

"We're going-"

"No, tomorrow: Sunday. Do some reconnaissance. Learn the layout."

"Ah." She glanced away. "I'm not sure-"

"I can ask John."

Molly sighed. "Try him first. If he can't, I will."

XXXXX

Jephro had just finished meeting with his lawyers about the contracts when Michael called him. "Hey, Michael. How's she doing? … Super. … Yeah, yeah I heard; Cyn's up to her old tricks. Push your way through it. The group's all set. I'll see y'all Friday. Just make sure the press is ready next Saturday-Hopefully she'll be ready too. You got plan B together? … Cool."

XXXXX

As soon as she arrived home, Molly reviewed the retreat materials Sherlock had forwarded: She wouldn't be getting much sleep. There were 'Meetings'-_Your journey to a better you-_an 'Envisioning'-_Find your potential!-_and 'Developments'- Times when she could have beauty treatments: Dermabrasion; Botox; bull semen hair masque- Placenta facial? Fish pedicure? Ugh! Live tiny carp, eating the calluses off her feet- Molly lowered the list. She wouldn't be getting any treatments; just as well.

XXXXX

When John returned home, Sherlock was again waiting for him in the entryway; a welcome sight this time.

"Sherlock! Did you find her?"

"We found Cynthia and Victoria, and are fairly certain we know where Deenie is. Will you come tomorrow on a scouting venture? A spa and retreat center in Winchester."

"Of course! Oh-" His face fell. "No. I'm to help Rebecca's uncle move tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Yes, the bloke he had helping him broke his arm-"

"Are you available next week? I could use someone on the outside. I'm going to be a temporary grounds man and Molly will be a client, but you could-"

"Molly? Sherlock, you're not going there with Molly tomorrow, are you? If you're planning to do that, I'll cancel the move-"

"Could you come next weekend? Saturday?"

"I'd have to juggle shifts; I'll let you know. Sherlock, you agreed. Tell me you are not putting Molly into an unsafe situation."

"Of course not." Sherlock turned and strode away.

XXXXX

Molly had just dressed for bed when her text alarm chirped. _John can't. Will knock you up at half six for the 7:19. Dark clothes, trekking boots-SH_

Fine.

* * *

A quick note: The beauty treatments mentioned in this chapter and in subsequent chapters in this piece are real and available for purchase, or were available for purchase, somewhere in the world. Truth is stranger than fiction, always. -AL2000


	8. Chapter 8: Apples and Snakes

Sweet Fire

Chapter 8: Apples and Snakes

_'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.  
__'You must be,' said the cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'_

_-Lewis Carroll_

It was slightly after nine when the cab dropped Sherlock and Molly near the Winchester center's gates; the thirteen acre estate was contained in a forest of oaks and beeches. Sherlock sent the cab away with instructions to return in precisely two hours. As he located the gate camera and determined that they were outside of its range, Molly inexplicably stretched out her arms. "Oh, this is lovely! So green and peaceful! I almost expect to see Robin Hood!"

Sherlock sniffed. "Putrid."

"Sherlock!"

"The countryside. Bah! A great deterrent to wrongdoing is inquisitive neighbors. Remove them and crime propagates. Come." He gestured forward. "Inside is our merry band of fecund felons."

Four meters from the edge of the wood was a brick wall, three meters tall. A coil of barbed wire was installed on top, along with, as Sherlock discovered, cemented in broken glass. Fortunately, Molly had brought a rucksack with a first aid kit among other items, and she capably bandaged the gash on his hand. For his part, Sherlock had brought a climbing rope, which, he was delighted to discover, fit into Molly's rucksack rather well. Its addition made the sack considerably heavier, so he helped her on with it, and they trekked the perimeter.

Trees within two meters of the wall had been cleared, the overhanging branches pruned; however, in three places, there were higher branches that could support an adult's weight: With the rope, Sherlock could enter safely. There were no cameras.

They paused when they approached the front gate from the other side; they were out of the view of the camera and guard, and Sherlock signaled that they should circle back around. At the next high overhanging branch, he stopped. "I must go over. Wait near the front, monitor who enters and exits. Mind the camera and keep your mobile handy and on vibrate." He considered the tree: Over there, he could get a knee on and sort of scramble up; or, a more elegant and, he glanced at Molly, rooting in her rucksack, impressive ascent would be to leap straight up, grasp that branch a meter over his head, chin himself, swing a leg- Yes. He bent for a handful of dirt-traction-then bounced on the balls of his feet, calculating-

"Here." Molly handed him the bundled rope, turned and left.

Ah.

Inside the compound, Sherlock found the trees were cleared to a distance of four meters from the wall; without a rope, escaping the estate would prove a far greater challenge than entering. Some thirty meters in front of him was the clearing: A car park and small building from which came growling and snarling; then the expanse of lawn. Giving the kennel wide berth, he skirted the edge of the wood, eventually seeing a hen house and yard, toolshed, and small dormitory. He paused behind the hen house: Directly in front of it was the hen yard, then a kitchen garden; beyond these, a modern two story building with large windows through which he could see exercise equipment, and the main house: Mansion turned hotel turned retreat center.

No one was in sight, so he left the wood, ran forward to the hen house and hid behind it, peering out to observe the mansion: No obvious cameras or alarm systems. The website had emphasized privacy, and there would be limits to the security upgrades given the centuries old architecture: There were entrances on each side of the building, and the windows were large enough to admit a person. The top floor was a hospital area where most of the procedures were done; the kitchen, office, dining and meeting rooms were on the ground floor; the middle floor and some of the ground floor was housing for clients; he would have to make certain Molly was assigned a ground floor suite. There also appeared to be stairs leading to a basement: Deenie could be there. She could be anywhere. The website had mentioned that most of the beauty products were manufactured on site; perhaps in the basement? None of these outbuildings were large enough to house a production facility- save the gym. Actually the gym was a good place to hold a hostage: The building was far newer and might have a modern security system. Worth a closer look.

He was about to make a dash for it when he heard the toolshed doors open: A grizzled man in workman's clothes rolled out a mower and, his back to Sherlock, began to work at it with a pair of spanners. That path to the gym blocked- Okay. More worrisome, Sherlock's path back to the woods from this position was now compromised. Sherlock edged to the corner of the hen house farthest from the toolshed and peered around, scouting a new route to the gym, and out- At that moment, eleven people-nine women, two men-filed out of the mansion, led by a lean woman in yoga clothing. They gathered into a circle beside the kitchen garden, holding their hands out, faces to the sky and breathing deeply. Sherlock leaned against the hen house: Couldn't go forward; couldn't go back. Both parties were somewhat distracted, yet- He took out his mobile.

XXXXX

Wondering when she was going to finish her laundry, Molly felt her mobile vibrate:

_Am caught. Want distraction-SH _

Oh! _Coming-Molly_

She made her way around and managed to get over the wall without breaking anything. Dogs! She could hear their happy yapping. Creeping forward: Ah! Four in a kennel, romping and jumping; awfully young to be guard dogs. Keeping to the forest, she worked round the clearing: There were people near the garden. And, yes, Sherlock, behind the hen house and a gardener fixing a mower not three meters away. In a spot, wasn't he?

XXXXX

Sherlock's mobile vibrated. _Am in wood. What to do?-Molly_

_Distract-SH_

_Ideas?-Molly_

Sherlock sighed. The group was now taking handfuls of dirt and rubbing it on their faces while the leader intoned: "Renewing yourself with mother earth, this is what our treatments do. We scrub away the dead cells and filth of living-"

_Anything! Please!-SH_

"-few of you have hesitated to embrace these opportunities. I must say I cannot understand this. If I were to lay a thousand pounds in front of you, would you snub that?"

_I shall release the dogs-Molly_

_Dogs? No-SH_

"-people happily give money, jobs, sex to beautiful, lovable people!"

_Puppies!-Molly_

_No!-SH _

XXXXX

Fred had got Buster down and was about to bite him good when he saw Stinky and Tiger getting pats from a Lady. Ooh! And she opened the gate! And-! Apples! Buster got some apple, and Tiger got some apple, and Stinky made a smell- Stinky! Fred jumped over Stinky and got some apple from the Lady-Thanks, Lady! He took it off- Ate it! Then- Chickens! Fred raced over! Buster was tackling the fence, and Tiger was running back and forth- Aw! The chickens ran inside. But the Ladies-some Sirs-were running! And squawking! Loud Machine Sir was yelling and waving sticks! Fred chased a dark Sir to the woods then came back after getting another pat from the Apple Lady- Tiger had a Lady down and was cleaning her face! Buster and another Lady- Playing tug-it with her jumper! And Stinky! Rolling in chicken poop! Stinky! Fred tackled a Lady; she didn't go down but- Got her shoe! Yeah!

XXXXX

They were late, right, so Bob was about to pull away when the two come tearing out of the wood and pile in, slamming the cab door. "Station. Now." says the gent, totally out of breath, and off they went. His usual fares to this place were quiet like and dressed proper. This lot- Then Bob hears sobbing and glances in the rear view. Not crying- Laughing. Heads rolling, like a pair of hyenas. They'd like, slow down, catch sight of each other and off again. Bob smiles in spite of himself. Some folk!

XXXXX

Molly's stomach and chest ached. She had to focus on breathing-and keep her eyes away from Sherlock-before she could talk without dissolving again; this didn't happen until they were on the train and well on their journey home.

As it was, Sherlock began, "How did you know they weren't vicious?"

Taking a deep breath, "They were wrestling and playing in their pen. I had a dog like that when I was a girl; always knocking you over while wagging his tail."

"Horrible!"

Molly could feel the giggles rolling and closed her eyes. "Oh, he was wonderful. You never had a dog?"

"No. A rosy boa. Matilda."

"Matilda!" She opened her eyes: He was serious.

"My mother named her." With a glance, "Why do women name things?"

"Can't say. Our dog was Rex."

"Did Rex get along with your cat?"

"Clyde? Clyde came later. Rex ate lawn furniture and uprooted trees, so he had to go. Very sad."

"Ah." Sherlock fell silent.

"What happened to Matilda?"

"Mother has her still." Glancing again, "Have you still got Brian?"

"Oh, yes. He's fine. I showed him to an entomologist friend; Brian continues to defy classification."

"Of course! Unique. I should find him a mate. A shame to allow his species to die out."

"You found him on my roof, right? You're welcome back. Do you remember how to disable the alarm?"

"Of course. I shall visit directly after this case is resolved."

Molly nodded. Although he was silent, Sherlock continued to gaze at her, and she felt suddenly warm and flustered. Looking down, she thought of a sensible question: "What did you learn from the grounds?"

"Ah." He became somber. "No cameras beyond the gate-" The rest of their journey was taken by technical descriptions of the outbuildings and entrances, and speculations as to where Deenie could be. Soon they had arrived in London.

Sherlock flagged a cab and held the door for Molly. "I shall see you Friday."

"All right." She paused. "Would you like to have lunch? With me? Or tea, later? The meal-with me?"

"No. Research and preparation."

"Oh. Right. Okay." Molly meant only to give him a celebratory peck-Quick!-on the cheek, but he moved at the last instant, and she met his mouth for three seconds-Four seconds-before she pulled away and slipped into the cab. He shut the door and left. Molly watched: He didn't look back. Oh. Sinking into her seat, she resolved to concentrate on her laundry for the rest of the day; hopefully, all would be forgotten by Friday.

XXXXX

Neither the research nor the packing should have taken long; but they did. Sherlock found himself gazing at his mobile and thinking of wide, warm cups of tea; taxicabs- He slipped the device into his pocket and felt it against his thigh. That was worse. Finally, he placed it in a drawer that he closed firmly; then spent a good part of the afternoon standing near the drawer for no reason. It took him until nine o'clock to pack for the week ahead and to learn that Jason Courage, formerly Jephro Rucastle, had been indicted for procuring ten years ago, but the charges had been dropped. Several hotels were mentioned in the indictment, including Texas Friendly; nothing came of it. The article on the arrest noted that Jephro Rucastle was a member of a rare sect of snake handlers in Alabama and had gone to Texas to found a church in that tradition; instead, he had begun the Tribe of Jason, a cult based on Jason of the- Sherlock looked up. He knew this. His mind drifted back to tea, curling steam- What was he doing? Nothing productive! He should analyze an acetone- Or something- Or- He opened the drawer.

XXXXX

Molly didn't hear the first text because she had been showering; as she stepped out, a second alarm chirped. Wrapping herself in her robe, she read:

_Are you home?-SH_

_Am coming-SH_

He was coming here? Oh- _I'm home. Don't want to go out-Molly_

_Good-SH_

_What's happened?-Molly_ As she was dressing, she heard the text alarm chirp-Twice!-and, when she emerged from her bedroom, her doorbuzzer sounded. She pressed the admit button and checked the texts:

_Nothing-SH_

_At your tower-SH _

Okay. _Why are you coming?-Molly_

_To see you. At lift-SH_

_About?-Molly_

No response. Frowning, she went to the door.

XXXXX

As Sherlock stepped into the corridor, he worried about the logistics: Head to the right? To the left? If they went the same way, an awkward and possibly painful collision was ensured. Best if her eyes were closed, but- The door opened: She had obviously just taken a shower; everything damp; droplets on- He stepped forward; he was kissing her. A floating sensation-Oh!

His plan had been to kiss her goodnight then to retreat; but things grew more interesting what with parted lips and-That must be her tongue!-and her hands on his arms, drawing them around her. With each movement, he would float higher and his stomach would flip; then she- meandered to his neck; to his ear-His ear! He found it difficult to stand upright and leaned against the bar, speechless as she eased off his coat and jacket. When she began to unbutton his shirt, however- "You're unbuttoning my shirt. Why are you unbuttoning my shirt?"

She stopped. "Oh! I- I'm-" Dropping her hands, "Sorry."

"No! It's all right." He took her hands and placed them on the next button. "It's fine." And his hands over hers, undid that button and the button after it. And the one after that, and after that, tails out and completely undone. Ah! The freckle on her neck! He bent and kissed it-Warm-and she sighed and ran her fingers-Soaring again-across, around-Breakneck speed!-her palms down his back to his-Oh! Ohh… Stomach- Lurching- She was pressing everywhere against him, pulling his head down, kissing his mouth- Couldn't- Breathe! -squeezing- With a cry, he broke away! When the whirling slowed, he was by himself in the living room, gulping air.

XXXXX

It took Molly a good half minute before she grasped that Sherlock was now halfway across the flat, hunched over. "Sherlock! What-! Have I hurt you?" He shook his head, but when she took a step toward him, he threw out a hand-

"No."

She was at once cold; knotted; a high pitched ringing in her ears. When she was able to look at him-straightening, but ashen-she felt a sudden fury. He was eying the door, and she saw she was blocking his path to it; she could make him scramble over the bar- No. Lifting her chin high, she stepped aside. As he moved to leave, "Sherlock." He stopped. "You said once you left a gun here. Is it here still?" A nod. "Fetch it. Now."

He turned to her bedroom, crossed to the bureau and opened _that _drawer-Her silks and laces in the racy reds and blacks-to its full extent, revealing a pistol taped to the back.

"Why-" she could barely speak "-Why did you put it there?"

Carefully removing the pistol, Sherlock tapped the unworn pull and mumbled, "This drawer is never used; least risk." He tucked the gun into his pants at the small of his back and glanced at her folded underthings. "Unneeded extra-"

"Shut it!" Molly snapped. She marched into the kitchen and snatched up a bin liner; then marched back to the linen closet, threw it open, removed two stacks of towels, got into the secret compartment in the back, and started flinging his things into the liner: Shirts! Pants! Shorts! Toilet kit! All of it! When the space was empty, she marched to the front door and stood, holding the sack at arm's length and gazing pointedly away. "Take it and leave. I am keeping Brian."

Slowly gathering his coat and jacket, Sherlock crept to the door and reached for his sack.

As she released it, "Did you actually want to? Or was this whole thing an-" spitting the word "-_experiment_?"

Silence; then, barely audible, "Want? Want what-?"

Through gritted teeth, "To- To have- Sex! Did you want to?" She forced herself to look at him.

He was staring. "Yes. Very much." Closing her eyes, she exhaled. When she opened them, he was in the corridor, still staring.

"Button your shirt. You'll catch cold." She shut the door.

XXXXX

As he approached his block with sore arms and back, John spied the tall figure waiting in the entryway. Getting old hat- Oh. This time, something was very wrong.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was quavering; he was in his bare shirt although it was cold, hugging coats and a bin liner filled with something. "Have you reconsidered? It would be very, very good if you could come this weekend. Very good."

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

"This weekend, John. To help. Can you come?"

"I'll arrange it tomorrow. Sherlock, you're shaking. And your shirt-"

"My shirt!"

"The buttoning's off. Misaligned."

"Yes." Sherlock dropped everything and began to fumble with the buttons. "Things don't always happen as expected. Things go off. They go wrong."

"Sherlock?"

"You do your best. You try. And try."

"Sherlock, come up for a cup of tea."

"No!" Sherlock stared at him wildly, then collected his things. "No tea! I am no good at tea." He took two steps away and glanced back. "I'm no good at anything important." And was gone.


	9. Chapter 9: True, True Love

Sweet Fire

Chapter 9: True, True Love

_We are not divided; all one body, we  
__One in hope and doctrine; one in charity_

_-Sabine Baring-Gould_

During the course of the next day, John received several texts:

_Have arrived. I am Toby. Employment secure-SH_

_No opportunity to search. Am with minder-SH_

_Mowing; will search gym-SH_

_Hate mowing; couldn't search gym. Shall tonight-SH_

_Mopping kitchen. Will search basement-SH_

_Lab/production facility in basement. Animals. Couldn't explore-occupied, keypad lock. Tell Molly-SH_

At this, John texted back: _Tell Molly what?-JW_

_Everything-SH_

_Tell her yourself-JW_

_Can't-SH_

_Why?-JW_

No response. John sighed and rang Molly: Voicemail. "Hello Molly, John Watson here. Sherlock's been texting. Could you ring me? Or better yet, ring him." He forwarded her the texts; then worked to switch his shifts. No word from either of them until that evening when another text came through:

_Ask Molly how she calmed the dogs-SH_

John rang her again. This time, "Hello?"

"Molly? John Watson. Why am I getting texts from Sherlock asking me to ask you how to calm dogs?"

"Oh. It's…it's complicated." John waited, but nothing more came.

"What is complicated?"

"All of it."

"Did he take you to that retreat center yesterday?"

"Yes."

"He had agreed not to put you in danger-"

"I wasn't. He went in; I waited outside. The lookout."

"With the dogs."

"They were puppies, really. I used apples to make friends, but bread or meat will do. Tell him to avoid onions or grapes- or chocolate. I'll bring treats Friday."

"Why can't you tell him yourself?" No response. "Did you two have a row?"

A long pause; then, "You could say that." John waited again. "John, I can't understand him. I don't understand him. I never have, never will." She sounded close to tears.

"What happened?"

"I don't know! That's just it! It makes no sense at all!"

"Molly, what are you talking about?"

Bitterly, "A- An investigation gone- terribly wrong. Not the hotel. At- my flat."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Consent all around?" John held his breath.

"Yes, yes. Everyone was willing. He's- Sherlock is- Tightly wound."

"Ah, yes. He is, isn't he." Reflecting, "Was anyone hurt?" Silence. "Physically hurt?" Nothing. John waited. She didn't hang up; nor did she respond. Oh, God! "Molly, if Sherlock hurt you-"

"Not me, John. I wasn't hurt at all. And Sherlock said he wasn't, but he- there was-" She fell silent.

"There was-?"

"Leaping and screaming."

"Leaping and screaming. Oh."

"We hadn't done much of anything, really, just- Suddenly, he was flying though the air- And shrieking-" She fell silent again.

John took a deep breath; this explained a bit. "Okay. Not for joy, then."

"No." A short laugh. "No, he seemed rather ill, actually."

"Ah. Ever the romantic, our Sherlock." He gave her a moment. "Are you all right?"

Molly sighed. "Yes." Then, timidly, "What do you think it was?"

"Oh, a bit overwhelmed, I suppose; he's newish at all this, if you hadn't gathered. 'Tightly wound' sounds spot on. Couldn't have been too pleasant for anyone."

"It was horrible, John! I was angry when it happened, but now that I think about it, I don't think it was his fault, but it couldn't be my fault, could it? He probably hates me. I- I- I'm no good at this."

"Molly, I very much doubt it was your fault. If it's any consolation, I don't think anyone would be any good at this. And he doesn't hate you; he's been trying to communicate with you through me, although not about that. He'll pretend that never happened; it's his modus op. You know, you don't have to go this weekend."

"No. I will. And I shall text him. There's no danger; not to me. Nothing ever happens to me."

XXXXX

Sherlock, back aching, was lying on a hard bunk in the dormitory, waiting for the head grounds man to fall asleep. His text alarm sounded: _You can text me-Molly. _Ah.

_Good. How do I calm the dogs?-SH_

XXXXX

Tuesday morning, John checked: Molly was receiving the same texts.

_Explored gym. No Deenie-SH_

_Edging. Hate edging-SH_

_Weeding-SH_

_Mopping-SH_

_Got in lab-Have code-No Deenie: Bees, birds-nightingales, snake-black mamba, leeches, fish, earthworms, snails. Will explore more tonight. Can access all stories via lift-SH_

_Agriculture?-JW_

_Beauty treatments-Molly_

_?-JW_

_Earthworms (casings), snails (mucus) for face/body cream. Nightingales (droppings), bees/snakes (venom) for facials-Molly_

_Snake venom!?-JW_

_Like Botox-Molly_

_GOD-JW_

_People-Patients and doctors arriving-SH_

_People on top floor. Deenie may be there-SH_

Later that evening-

_Doctors leaving. Patients remain. Deenie definitely here-one room has guard/new keyed lock-SH_

XXXXX

"I'm Michael Amazing, the director of the Winchester Jason's Place Spa and Retreat Center. Welcome to the Jason's Place marriage encounter group. Now that you've had your treatments, I want you to take a good long look at each other. This is your new family, at least temporarily."

Deenie glanced around the room at the eager faces seated in a circle, and crossed her legs more tightly. Michael Amazing (Amazing!) was American: The man she saw that night?

He continued, "These people will save your life; certainly your partnerships. We will be focusing on our Golden Fleeces; a quick review: The Golden Fleece was the purpose of Jason's journey. What is our Golden Fleece?"

"To be loved. To be accepted, every part." Jesus! The whole group had spoken at once! Deenie kept very still.

Michael nodded. "I will be completely honest with you: It's going to be hard. It will hurt. But in the end, you will be better partners and better people. Hang on tight! We are in for a wonderful ride!"

Mama had signed her up for this? Really?

XXXXX

Late that night, John's text alarm rang:

_Have seen Deenie. Top floor. Doing a group-SH_

_She okay?-JW_

_How does she look?-Molly_

_Has bandage on face. Otherwise okay. Served them supper. All dark now-SH_

_Can you sneak her out?-JW_

_Guarded. Am working on plan-SH_

_What is the group?-Molly_

_Uncertain. 9 other people: British and American; different professions. 8 are bandaged. Going to security office. Will use apples-SH_

_Be careful-JW_

Still later:

_In security office. Got Deenie's passport, etc. Only 3 cameras: Front gate, and lab door and inventory. Could hack system-SH_

_Won't they notice her things gone?-JW_

_Left envelope stuffed-same position. Will mislead all but careful scrutiny-SH_

Much later:

_One dog is flatulent!-SH_

XXXXX

It was morning, and Deenie hadn't gotten much sleep. She blinked and tried to concentrate on what Delores, another nose job, was saying: "But marriage is all about communication. If twice a month isn't enough for you, why not ask for more?"

"Oh, who can talk about that kind of thing?" Evelyn, chin lift. "I don't want to be demanding. It's just- I thought the eye reshaping would take care of this."

"Well, you know, dear, and I mean this completely in the spirit of helping you find your Golden Fleece, your ears are rather, well, prominent."

From the time she was sixteen, Deenie had spent every summer glued to Mama's side at work, shadowing her to learn the ropes. Every time her mother talked with anybody else, from laughing with the secretaries to having high powered pow-wows with the board, Mama would pull Deenie to the side afterwards and whisper what kind of meeting it was-Mama had her own names-what was _really _going on and, most important, what the rules were. In the last couple of summers, she would grill Deenie on it.

This particular kind of meeting was called a _Sit and Spin: _We all smile and pretend to talk about important things; everybody has an agenda, and nobody lets on what theirs is, so nobody really connects, and nothing moves forward. You can't make any deals in a Sit and Spin. The rule was: _Sit, watch and learn the players; look approachable, but keep your mouth shut as long as possible. _

They had been spinning for three hours now, ever since breakfast. Deenie was grateful for her bandage; she didn't have to work so hard to look interested. Of course, in the meetings with Mama, Deenie hadn't ever been allowed to talk, so she usually passed the time by holding a running commentary on them in her mind; kind of a mental blog: _The second day of the Marriage Encounter Group was as lame as the first. They keep harping on surgery, sex and more surgery. I've had to have all kinds of cosmetic surgery; it's painful and, honestly, it doesn't change things much. As for the sex, I thank God Americans have a reputation of being hyper religious. I could say I was saving myself for marriage and drop out of that discussion entirely._ As if she'd let old Roger anywhere near her_._

XXXXX

Wednesday mid-morning, John's text alarm rang:

_A VIP is coming Friday night, late. Am cleaning suite-SH_

_Who?-JW_

_Don't know. John hire a car Saturday, drive down early-SH_

_With all my spare cash?-JW_

_Will reimburse-SH_

_Right-JW_

_Good. Will text later where to park it-SH_

XXXXX

_The worst part about group was that they pulled down the shades. When I was locked in my room, I could at least look out the window; I haven't been outside since I was taken- came-_

"Deenie?" She looked up. Michael. "You've been so quiet. Where are you?"

Smiling, "I am so sorry. I guess I'm just a little blown away by everything."

"How would you feel about contributing to the group?"

"Oh, sure! Sure, I'll talk. What do you all want to know?"

"Well." Michael glanced around the room. "What do you and Lord St. Simon talk about, for a start."

Deenie took a deep breath. The rule was: _Don't give away secrets, but tell the truth. Don't let God or anyone watching call you a liar._ "Well, Roger is a collector, so we go to auctions sometimes, and that's fun. We talk about managing things; managing his estate is sort of like managing hotels. And the stock market and real estate- Investments. We talk about investments." _Roger's ideas about management and money were always good for a laugh. He has had his ass handed to him more times than I could count._

"Does he give you tips?" It was Delores, her nose job twin.

"Sometimes," answered Deenie truthfully and with a straight face; everyone smiled and nodded.

"What does he collect?" That was Kathleen, boob job/lipo.

"Teacups, mostly. Really pretty. You can't- Can't drink- Real pretty."

"Do you love him?" Stephanie, American, permanent make-up.

"Oh, yes." Deenie nodded. _Yeah. Whatever that meant._

The guard was whispering in Michael's ear. "Well, I've just had word that our luncheon is ready next door. Evelyn, Miranda, Deenie, and Geoffrey, Nurse Toller would like to check your bandages." The group stood and filed out.

XXXXX

Sherlock had pushed the cart in after Cook, and helped to set up the buffet and heaters. Cook was addicted to reality shows; inevitably, "Now Toby, you go on and serve; I've a little something I must see to in the kitchen. Be smart, now; none of your looks."

Doling out the buffet entrees with lowered eyes, Sherlock listened carefully.

"She's not opening."

"Quite resistant."

"Oh, I think she is coming around. She's talking, at least."

When the queue was done, the American leader rose and spoke, "Okay, everyone, we only have a minute. I want you to reflect: Think of one person whose life will you save when Jason's Place is able to reach him or her." He paused. "Now tell the name of that person to your neighbor." The group turned to one another and murmured. "We are doing nothing less than miracles, people. By helping Deenie, we are helping Jason's Place grow. By doing that, we are saving everyone we love."

XXXXX

Deenie had had to wolf her lunch, as usual. When she reluctantly came back and took her seat, Michael was smiling, as usual. "Welcome back. I hope you all had a good lunch. When we left, Deenie was giving us some insights about how the other half lives. So Deenie, we know you have taken advantage of the facilities here to make your life better. What does Lord St. Simon do to enhance his life?"

Ah. Now things were starting to make sense. Of course Mama sent her here; they wanted to make sure she could handle the pressure of heading up the European division. Deenie closed her eyes, planning; then opened them with a wide smile. "My fiancée, Lord Roger St. Simon is a very spiritual man-"


	10. Chapter 10: Ripe

Sweet Fire

Chapter 10: Ripe

_...the fox woke up and saw the grapes, glistening..._

_-Aesop_

"She was obviously more interested in punishing than nourishing! Other children got Peter Rabbit and Pooh Bear; every time I tried to catch my breath, I had her thrown in my teeth: That controlling, passive aggressive bitch, the Little Red Hen!" Delores was crying. Christ, they were all crying. _The third day in, we had a morning Pity Party: We all tell our terrible secrets and cry about them. Pity Parties are my mother's favorite technique to get people to trust her and to get the inside track on them at the same time._ _The rule was: You had to join in, or people wouldn't trust you. Give them something real and really cry about it, but make sure it was on public record and couldn't be spun to make you look bad. Always keep them from getting the inside track on you._ _We had plenty of pity parties at college; I had my stories all picked out and practiced up. _ Deenie sniffed loudly-

"Oh, geeze, Delores, I feel you! Have y'all ever heard of The Little Engine That Could?"

XXXXX

When Sherlock served lunch, smiles abounded.

"She's opening!"

"Magical!"

"About time."

At tea, the group took their food quietly; but at dinner, they were positively giddy: Something had happened. When everyone had been served, Michael stood, arms outspread and grinning. "Well, that was a heck of a break-through, wasn't it! Good for you, people!"

XXXXX

Down the hall, in the bathroom, leaning against the sink, Deenie was trying to get a grip. She took a deep breath and reviewed: _I was telling my story of getting attacked by a serial rapist in the parking lot when I was twelve. It was a good story with a happy ending: I had kicked over a trash can, and Daddy came out and tackled the guy before he went all the way. But when I had gotten to the part where I say_-Deenie felt her eyes fill again-_where I say, 'I just couldn't believe that someone would, I don't know, treat me like that. Use me- Like I was a thi-_her throat tightened-_I started- I just couldn't- Couldn't-_She closed her eyes tight-_ Stop. Michael came and put his arms around me and I kept- _

It was no good. Deenie lowered her head and stayed there. _You were supposed to cry at pity parties, not sob uncontrollab- _Oh God! Her eyes popped open. When Mama found out-! Deenie swallowed. Maybe it wouldn't be bad this time. Maybe this time, Mama would say: _I love you Deenie, every bit. I know this is hard; you're doing fine._ Sometimes she said that. She did. Sometimes. Deenie took a raggedy inhale and straightened. She needed to get going.

XXXXX

In the makeshift dining room, Michael shushed the quiet applause. "I want you all to know that this group, more than any group I have ever worked with, embodies the spirit of Jason and his quest. Your accomplishments have been noticed by-Yes, people-by Jason himself!" The group made appreciative noises. "We're not done; we're doing affirmations after dinner and tomorrow morning-You deserve it!-but know this: Wonderful things are coming!"

Sherlock glanced at the cart. Must get in that room!

XXXXX

Friday, finally. Molly met her fellow retreat goers on the van from the station and again at the luncheon. There was Edna, at least seventy-five with intelligent, cheerful eyes; Jasmine, an ethnically Indian woman few years older than Molly and comfortable looking; and Eve, a statuesque blonde who had already had a good deal of work done. Eve was aloof, talking mostly to her fluffy Papillion, Lord Pookie: "Quite intelligent and quite sensitive." Molly noticed the dog matched Eve's hair exactly.

When the conversation drifted to their common experience of being asked to change retreat dates, Eve shared was that she had been asked to come to this retreat specifically, perhaps as a model for the rest. She didn't mind. This was her third retreat. She loved it. The people here were her close and personal friends.

At half past twelve exactly, they were herded onto the terrace where a lean woman wearing yoga clothes directed them to sit in a semi-circle with herself in the center. "Welcome to Jason's Place-"

"Where's Michael?" Eve was addressing the woman, but making mouths at Lord Pookie.

"Eve." The woman smiled brightly. "So good to see you! Michael is upstairs with an advanced seminar; but he was quite excited to hear you were here and wanted to consult with you personally. Perhaps during our evaluation period?"

"Of course." Eve lifted Lord Pookie and smiled.

"Fabulous. As I was saying, 'Welcome to Jason's Place.' I am Claire Vision, assistant director and head of public relations at the Winchester Jason's Place Spa and Retreat Center. I know most of you associate Jason's Place with excellent and innovative beauty products and treatments-we are cutting edge and have the celebrity clientele to prove it-but did you know that the retreat center portion of Jason's Place was the original calling of the organization?"

In the dining room behind Claire, Molly noticed a dark haired janitor in a blue overall pulling a mop and bucket. As he bent to lock the wheels, she realized it was Sherlock, and she flushed, focusing back to the front.

"-to tell you that, right now, you have what it takes to be the most attractive person you know; every one of you. You're probably thinking, 'Then why did I just spend an hour on the train?' A polite round of laughter. "Well, I would ask you: Do you _feel _like the most attractive person you know? What we do here is act as an enzyme-"

Molly's attention wandered back to Sherlock, holding the mop: With one movement, he plunged it into the bucket, lifted the dripping head up, back down again- A sudden image of him stepping through her door; warm skin under her fingers- Molly snapped away, gluing her eyes on Claire.

"-all know the story of Jason of the Argonauts, the ancient Greek hero seeking the Golden Fleece. Our goal here is for you to find your own, personal Golden Fleece, the thing you want more than anything in the world-"

Sherlock was rocking slightly, drawing the mop across the marble in long, wet arcs. Oh- At once, Molly was both cold and hot, staring at the ground. Pathetic. He was hopeless! A newish- Experimenter. Was she that desperate, that pitiful, to swoon at the attentions of any sorry, gawking- In her mind, she heard Sister Agnes, the headmistress at her school: _Really, Miss Hooper? This _curious_ one? He is worth your time? Which is it you are longing to be, then: His bucket of waste water? Or the floor? _

XXXXX

"How do we _feel _people!"

The people said, "Yah! Woo!"

"You can do _anything_!"

"Yeaah!"

"Got your eyes on the prize and that's all you need!"

"Yaaaaa-hoooo!" Deenie waved her hands in the air and smiled as widely as she could. She hadn't been this tired in a long, long time. _There is nothing more exhausting than a Love Fest. You have to act like you love it, you never want it to stop; at the same time, watch out for the sting: Nobody smiles for nothing. _

Deenie had to be especially enthusiastic, because it had happened again, just like yesterday! Right before lunch, she was the last one to do the individual affirmations: She had sat in the center of the circle and listened to everything with a real buzzed look on her face, just like she was supposed to. Through the: 'I am quite honored that you chose to spend time with us.' and 'Oh, Deenie, you are so beautiful!' and 'I truly admire your courage.' All that. Then they had gotten to the end, where all together they said, 'We love you, Deenie. Every part.' just like they had with everybody else, but when they said it to her, something twanged: She had started crying, again! Totally out of the blue! It wasn't as bad, this time; she had pulled it together a lot faster and thrown out something she had heard Mama say once: 'I can feel the love in this room; it's so- so- just give me a minute.' But damn! She was losing it; she really was.

Now it was after lunch, and Michael was riling them up for some reason: "Oh yeah! Feel that! We have just saved your _life_! Now! People." He grew quiet with suppressed excitement. "We have the most amazing opportunity for everyone." A thrill ran through the crowd, and Deenie felt her back tighten. "Right now, this very moment, we're going to give everyone the chance to sign an endorsement of Jason's Place: A chance to put your beliefs into action; spread the good news of Jason's Place to the world! Then, late tonight, directly from Waco, Texas, Jason-Yes!–Jason Courage, the founder, president and CEO of Jason's Place Spa and Retreat Centers, is coming here! He'll be with us tomorrow! He'll be here, the press will be here, your bandages will be off and you all will have the opportunity to tell him-In person!-what a wonderful experience this has been!" He beamed at everyone, looking especially at Deenie, who smiled back, feeling exactly like throwing up.

XXXXX

"Now, before we break for your evaluations, we have a few friends to introduce." Fred?! No. Friends. Not Fred. Oh. Fred was _Sit_ting next to Stinky; Tiger and Buster were _Sit_ting on the other hand: Strong Sir had them on leashes. _Sit. Sit._ Ducks!-Sir pulled. Right. _Sit._ Oh! _Come_! Fred and Stinky and Tiger and Buster all stood and _Come_d inside-cold floor-and _Sit_ted in front of Ladies who also had to _Sit. _Oh! Apple Lady! Fred's tail thumped.

"We want you to know that the dogs are quite friendly and are kenneled during the day-" It was the Shoe Lady! Had she got it out of the chicken poop? Fred's tail thumped harder. "-locked in at present to prevent accidental escape-but they are released at night; our own alarm system. We have celebrity guests and have had difficulties with the press at times. They are handled by Stan, whom you may have seen in the guardhouse. Stan, would you do the honors?"

"Certainly. This is Apollo" -he put his hand on Fred's head- "Ares" –Stinky- "Zeus" –Buster- "and Hercules." -Tiger. "All quite friendly-" Oh! Buster was barking! The yellow haired Lady had a rabbit! No- Squirrel! No! Something wriggling! Fred and Tiger and Stinky jumped and barked too and the Lady jumped up, holding the wriggling thing over her head and squawking! Buster tackled and Fred tackled but she didn't go down- Everyone jumping and squawking! Strong Sir pulling leashes, yelling- "Get down you bloody-" Apple and Bread Sir came out fast and-Aw!-took the wriggling thing away and back inside and shut the door before they could- "_Sit! Sit! _Dammit! You stinking-" Fred _Sit_ted_. _Dammit.

XXXXX

"Now Eve, we've talked about how having a temper is not at all lovable-"

"Those brutes nearly tore Lord Pookie to pieces! We are leaving immediately!" Eve had collected Lord Pookie from Sherlock, changed her clothes, packed her bags and was shrieking at Claire, as Molly and everyone watched.

"Eve! So good to see you!" A polished American man was parading down the staircase.

"Michael. Pity. I'm leaving." Eve pushed past Claire and opened the front door.

"Oh, now, can't we talk?"

"Talk to me as I walk to the gate. I've already rung a cab." She held up a mobile.

"Eve. You were supposed to give up your mobile."

"I gave up one of them." She strode out, Michael following.

Claire turned to Molly and the others and smiled. "Some people aren't ready to seek their Golden Fleece. Hopefully, for her sake, Michael will help her find the courage to complete this journey. In the meantime, you three have some assessments to complete."

She led them to the top floor, a hospital. In the lobby was a man in a lab coat, a nurse and horde of early twenty-something women in lab coats, heels and thick make-up. Claire began with the man: "This is Dr. Kevin Toller, who manages the lab downstairs, where we create our fabulous beauty products. He is married to this lovely lady, Nurse Patricia Toller, who manages the hospital. Patricia will work with you should you opt for a surgical procedure. And here," she waved grandly at the horde, "we have Crystal, Heidi, Mandy, Brandi, Candi, and finally Tanqueray-No, you may not drink her!" Quiet, appreciative laughter. "Our experts will be evaluating your body types, skin types, face, hair and coloration for your optimal cosmetic, clothing, daily regimen, product and beauty treatment choices. All of this comes entirely free of charge, and because there are so few of you, they will have the time to give you a thorough analysis. The girls will be back tomorrow for your envisioning development in the morning, and your development session in the afternoon. Tea will commence at five o'clock, and we shall meet back on the terrace directly afterward to share your Golden Fleeces. Have a wonderful time."

Molly faced the small army smiling at her. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

XXXXX

Jephro was about to get on the plane when he got the call. "Yeah? Hey Michael… What? … Shoot. Well, how's Deenie doing? Super! Okay, the one who took off: Call her up, refund her money and tell her she is no longer welcome at any Jason's Place clinics or spas. She signed up for any other treatments or procedures? Three? Wow! She pay for them yet? Cool. Refund her money for all of them, and tell her she can get them done someplace else. She is not welcome with us for the-this is important-for the foreseeable future. Basically, off the lovable list. … Hell, no, but not for at least six months, and charge her a premium when she comes back- …Oh, of course she will. You always want what you can't have; that Golden Fleece'll be even shinier if she's got to go through hell to get it. Besides, it'll shut her up; we can never afford bad press. Okay. Now for a new plan B- What do we got left?...Yep … Uh huh…Yeah. So basically: Short, old and Indian. Well, go for short, and hope she can walk in heels."


	11. Chapter 11: River of Fire

Sweet Fire

Chapter 11: River of Fire

_Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight._

_-Lennon and McCartney_

"I'm not certain. I thought I knew, but I was wrong." Molly glanced around to the others then returned to her feet. Edna's Golden Fleece was to finish her current book, a translation of Middle Eastern poetry, before she turned eighty in September; a bit tricky as she was going on a six week meditation retreat in Burma, and she wouldn't be back until the first week in June. Jasmine's was to become pregnant with her second child; she was going to India for a three month visit directly after the retreat and wanted to have good news to share, but things hadn't happened. Her eyes had welled as she related this. Molly, however- "It's hard to pinpoint. When I work with my, um, charges, I'm thinking about, uh, guiding them, and I could always improve there. Could Guidance be a Golden Fleece?"

Claire gave her a practiced smile. "I'm glad to see you struggle, Violet. What had you thought it was before?"

Molly swallowed. "There was a man. It- Things- Didn't work. Even if they had, that wouldn't have been it. Something- something else."

"Yes." Claire's voice became harder. "Something else for all of you, I'm afraid. You are all deluded liars. At least Violet here knows she is a rudderless, broken dupe, wandering aimlessly: No purpose, no hope, no point, really. You others are just as lost, only you haven't the brains to realize it. Jasmine, Mrs. Reproduction, let's start with you."

XXXXX

Played. The little bitch had played them all. Michael's mind was hopping: Who the hell did she think she was, sitting there on her little princess ass- 'I just have to be real careful when I sign things.'- Dammit, dammit, dammit! They all knew she was full of- And Jason coming tonight! Jesus H. Christ! Okay. Okay.

When Christa finished testifying and signed the endorsement, smiling for the camera, Michael took a deep breath. "Well, Christa, I find you inspirational, the way you translate your thoughts and beliefs into action. That takes a brave person; a person of great personal integrity. Deenie, now, as it turns out, you are the only one of us who isn't signing. I think we need to talk about your integrity. Tell me: Does Lord St. Simon know that Al Doran is not your real father?"

XXXXX

In less than an hour, Jasmine was reduced to tears. Claire had got her to admit that the only reason she wanted a second child was because she had serious doubts that her husband loved her-'If he doesn't tell you that you are fabulously beautiful every day, something is very wrong'-or that her family loved her, or, indeed, that she was lovable at all. And, yes, it was a terrible thing to bring a child into the world to provide the acceptance and admiration-the love-she couldn't get elsewhere-'It's completely unfair. And pointless besides: If your husband-If your own mother!-finds you disgusting, why would a child feel differently?'

Molly tried to track how this had happened. All Claire did was ask questions- Why? Why do you think? What do you think? -Then emphasized parts of Jasmine's answers to lead to the next, more damning question. It all seemed to make sense, and yet- Both Molly and Edna had protested at different points, only to be cut off- 'Don't you worry; you are next.'

Finally: "So you see, Jasmine, your Golden Fleece isn't a second child at all: It is to be loved. That is what you are lacking. That is what you crave. Once that becomes clear, all of your actions, all of your choices become pure and you become a person of deep integrity." Smiling, "Well, thank goodness you are here. We can help you. Tomorrow, during your envisioning, we shall give you the tools to reach your Golden Fleece. Now." She turned to Molly. "Miss Guidance."

By the time Sherlock was rolling the carts into the dining room, Molly was admitting that she 'borrowed' other people's children because, secretly, she believed she would never have her own-'It is rather unlikely, as you are now'-and that no man had shown genuine interest at all since university; it was clear where this was going. They broke for dinner.

As she came through the dinner queue, Sherlock, serving, leaned forward and whispered, "Leave your window unlatched."

XXXXX

"I wonder who your mother will sell your sister to? Oh, that's right, when you sell something, you usually get something for it; your mother, on the other hand, is paying _Roger _a huge chunk of change to take you off her hands-"

Okay. Deenie consciously relaxed her stomach and unfocused her eyes. _Pecking Party: They peck and peck and peck in order to break you; when you are the pecker, it is called a 'wolf pack.'_ Deenie was real familiar with pecking parties.

"And where is _Roger_, anyway? Your knight in shining armor? We know you sent him an e-mail-"

_The point of pecking is to make a spot of blood; that spot becomes a focus, a weak place, so the trick is not to let them see any blood: Sit tight and shut up._

"I'm so disappointed in you Deenie. I feel completely let down."

"We trusted you, Deenie. Everything was a tissue of lies."

"Does he even know your real name?" Michael again. "It's not 'Denise', is it? It's 'Medea', right? Yeah, you're a hell of a warrior-"

Deenie had switched to the story of the time she went fishing in the Gulf of Mexico: _I had a king fish on the line, but it threw the hook- _

XXXXX

When Sherlock stepped through the drapes, Molly was in her robe, staring at herself in the mirror: Skin, eyes, hair. He watched. When she noticed him, he glanced upward. "They are still up there-it's past midnight. Something's happened."

"To Deenie?"

"She was shunned at supper. And I was told she was to receive her meals in her room. We must get her out tomorrow; I have most of a plan. I've texted John; he will be here early with some things. I shall sneak him in, create a distraction with things from the lab- There are cameras, but I can hijack the signal and set up a false feed."

"Why not bring in the police?"

"The guard is armed and he's young. They're amateurs. They'll panic."

"And how will John get by the gun?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "I haven't worked out all the details."

Molly frowned. "Sherlock, that sounds- I don't know if this helps but Jason Courage is coming tonight. We are meeting him outside tomorrow."

"What?"

"For our envisioning. I'll be blonde."

"Blonde?"

"Blonde. Tall. And developed. The 'envisioning' is where they give us a make-over to correct our many, many, many flaws which keep us from being lovable." She returned to the mirror. "I am getting the extreme version: Bleaching my hair, big falsies, very high heels- My flaws are so very numerous that I am not at all and never shall be-"

"Of course!"

"Sherlock?"

"The woman who left- The one with the little cat dog- she was blonde and tall. Like Deenie." He pressed his hands together on his chin. "I must think."

"You are welcome to think here, but I must sleep." Molly stood and moved to the bed. "Would you mind if I turned out the light?"

"I'd prefer it."

"Good."

XXXXX

Exams. Oh- Molly sat anxiously. In front of her were the tools: A tiny pair of tweezers, a tiny magnifying glass, a series of tiny brushes and hooks- Why so small? Ah! A fire! A bright one shooting up from the floor: Wonderful! Molly held out her hands and moved closer: So warm! 'Molly.' Sister Agnes! In a panic, Molly pulled back: The exam booklet! It was in code! Complete gibberish, and where was- 'Molly.' The examination room faded but the fire remained. She opened her eyes: The bedside light was on, and Sherlock was lying on his side next to her, on top of the covers.

"Sherlock?" She sat up.

He looked in surprise. "Are those my pajamas?"

"Oh-" Glancing down, she flushed. "Sorry. I'll return them when they are clean. They're comfortable." Lying back down, "What is it?"

"I texted John again; he will be here in an hour-I have the plan. Or most of the plan." He rolled onto his back and explained. She listened, asking only:

"And how will I get out, then?" He clarified and she had a few suggestions. It seemed workable, but the timing would be crucial and both she and Deenie would be playing large roles: Someone needed to speak with Deenie. Molly sighed. "Anything to get me out of here; this is a terrible place. They make you feel terrible, so ugly, just to sell their treatments."

"Make you feel?" Sherlock turned to her, puzzled. "How can they _make _you feel anything?"

"They spotlight your flaws; show how pointless your life is." Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "I'll be eighty and still single, a peon at the morgue-"

"You want to leave the morgue?"

"No. Maybe. No." Maybe; she opened her eyes, frowning: She had never considered it before.

"Molly, these people are idiots. Don't ever listen to idiots. I never do."

Something in his tone touched a nerve. "At least they don't-" She stopped.

"Don't what?"

Exhaling, "Don't jump away from me and scream." Sherlock was quiet. "Sherlock, I'm sor-"

He sat up. "John will be here soon. I must go." Wretched, she watched him cross the room. At the drapes, he paused and turned. In the same irksome tone, "You exaggerate. It was not a scream."

"A shriek! A squeal! Like a little girl! Like-"

"Anyone would have!"

"No."

"I was smothered!"

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself!"

"I was! Until you went everywhere at once!" He glanced away. "That can't be right."

"It's exactly right, Sherlock! That's how it's done!"

Facing her again, incredulous, "All those parts? All at once?" A shudder.

Molly stared. "You're serious. Oh, God! You never could- You shall never-"

"What?"

"What are we talking about? You could never have-"

"Of course I could!" Turning his back, "You would simply have to limit yourself to one part at a time!" He stepped through the drapes and was gone.


	12. Chapter 12: Holding a Torch

Sweet Fire

Chapter 12: Holding a Torch

_Crawling on her belly and shaking like jelly _

_- Tom Waits_

Deenie woke up aching, curled up on the floor. What-? Oh. Right. Last night, just after she had fallen asleep, her door had been unlocked, and her guard and another guy in a uniform had come in with Michael, yanked her out of bed and took the bed! And her night stand! And the chair! When she had asked Michael what was going on, he had given her a nasty smile and said something like-'It's for your own protection, Deenie. We don't want you to hurt yourself.' Jesus. Mama was really giving her the works.

As Deenie dressed, she reviewed: Had she followed all the rules? Really? She went over it a couple of times and, other than going overboard at the pity party, yes. She had towed the line. Okay. She just had to stick it out, then; in a day or two, Mama would come in, and Deenie could get out of here, get married, get her title, and get on with things.

XXXXX

In the breakfast room, Jephro was tired. This whole thing was unraveling; damn, Cyn. "Yeah, Michael, don't worry about it. You had five days with her; Cyn's had twenty-one years. I'll talk with Deenie this morning after breakfast; but we'll be going with the other." He thought a minute. "Hey- Cyn's folks. Are they still at the hotel?"

Michael nodded. "Think so."

"Okay. Do you know the number of that first plan B? The one who left?" Michael nodded again, and Jason smiled, "Good. I might have a job for her after all. Now, Deenie's on suicide watch, right?"

"Yeah, we did it right away."

"Cool. The next step is taking her clothes. Is that front gate secure?"

"Yes."

"Super. We need to give Stan the heads up: No one comes in without my say so. Press, police, no one. We got to keep a tight lid on this." That waiter guy put a loaded plate on the cart with a pot of coffee, a pitcher of water, a pitcher of orange juice-Hey! Jephro stopped him right before he wheeled that son of a bitch out. "Hold on there, son." Reading the name tag, "Toby? This for our guest down the hall?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that looks real good. Problem is, she's going on a diet." He took off the plate and pitchers and replaced them with a small plate of dry toast and a glass of water. "No caffeine, no fat. Now you go on and roll that in, son. I'll take care of this plate for you." Jephro grabbed a fork and dug in.

XXXXX

Deenie looked up as the door was unlocked: Toby rolled in a cart. Oh. Looked like she was staying in her room today. And not eating much. The cloth covering the bottom of the cart moved, and a man crawled out-Oh! She backed into a corner-Nothing, nothing to- He put his finger on his lips and spoke in a quiet voice, "Please don't scream! We're here to help you. Please- I'm John Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes." He indicated Toby-Sherlock?-who nodded, opened the door and backed into the hallway with the cart. "Jason will come in a minute; we were sent by your parents and Lord St. Simon to get you out. Sherlock will fetch me at lunch; I must tell you the plan-"

"No." Deenie shook her head. "No, this is-" Oh, God. Another test? Put the target in danger and then rescue; fosters trust and dependence. A well-known technique, but usually, it wasn't quite as literal. The man, John Watson, was staring at her.

"You- You were kidnapped. Don't you remember being kidnapped?"

"Mama sent you?"

"Yes. She was going to send in armed men, but we convinced her-" There was a thump at the door and the guard yelled. "I must hide." He opened the wardrobe and climbed inside. Just as Deenie pushed it shut, the room door was unlocked, and a man in diamondback boots, holding a hand mirror, strutted in.

"Hello, Darling. The name is Jason Courage."

XXXXX

At first, John tried hold his breath, but soon realized that that wouldn't work. Instead, he leaned forward and listened as carefully as he could. Jason was talking:

"I'm here to tell you a few things about your mama; and maybe a few things about yourself. Your mama and me, we go way back. Twenty-five years ago; Waco, Texas: A beautiful tribe of kids. See, I was kind of a- Well, a miracle worker, really. Only, the miracles came from the girls themselves; I would just- Help it to happen. I was supposed to be preaching the gospel, but Jesus and me- We didn't see eye to eye then; still don't. Didn't matter. I saved my share of souls using Jason and the Golden Fleece. The girls, they would come to me, all skittish and low, and I would use that story to tell the truth: They wanted to be loved, and they were lovable. I proved it to them, again and again and again! They bloomed under me; found peace. It was a beautiful thing." A pause.

"So there I was, working my miracles, and along comes your mama, my most devoted lamb. She helped me- Do it all. Figure things out. I didn't know crap about how to run things; she made sure everyone was fed, that we could pay the rent. She had those girls making face cream and bracelets to sell at swap meets; organized recruiting missions; polished up the program so the girls stuck around-Nobody could get people to see the light like your mama!-opened us up a bank account, for Christ's sake. She made it work. She and I were going to- Well, it didn't happen, did it." Jason's voice grew colder. "She got pregnant with you and got- Vision. Turns out she saw the whole thing as a business. You know why she left me twenty-one years ago?" Another pause. "Never told you? Want to hear what she told me?" John heard a paper crinkle. "Here's the note she left when she took you and went back to old Merle and Earlene. 'I'm done wasting my time with this two-bit crap. When you're ready to zip your pants and grow up, give me a call. I can't raise you and Deenie at the same time.' I wasn't big enough for her, Deenie; didn't have enough spunk. Well, hell! Here I am! Top of the world, baby, and where the hell is she?"

Deenie said something unintelligible.

"Yeah, well, Sweetheart, let me ask you: Just how do you think the Texas Friendly Hotel chain got to be so damn big? Oh, I read your senior thesis, 'The Astronomical Rise of a Hospitality Business.' Got you a suma cum laude, didn't it? But I'll tell you something: Those first few years, the 'astronomical rise' had nothing to do with 'innovative management techniques.' It was my girls. That was her edge. The Texas Friendly Chain was real friendly; a business man's dream: All the comforts of home in a double D. See, the tribe hadn't done so hot after she'd left; I'd gone down to Houston-Town to see if she would come back and help us out. Found her with that dump of a hotel-Remember that?-about to go belly up; a two year old-That was you-a guy with a strong back and a real nice eye for interior decor-That was Al-and an idea to save both of our asses: She had the venue and the customers; I had the- the labor. The girls wanted to be loved? They were loved all right: Five hundred bucks a throw. I _commoditized_ my assets. Her system was slick: Totally reliable, totally anonymous. The cops, they couldn't trace the money, couldn't trace anything. Want to see?" John heard another crinkle. "This here is just a little bitty part of it: State's evidence-See the stamp?-a copy of an e-mail; our system until disposable cells came out. See? Framingham, Wichita, Barstow. Look familiar?"

John heard Deenie catch her breath.

"Yep. It was your family's little system, wasn't it? Map co-ordinates to show room numbers: The map of the US of A that was in every Texas Friendly hotel room, right next to the bible. Faucet's leaking in Fresno; F-13. Toilet needs cleaning in Bismarck; asshole in Dallas needs some extra towels: A-12; B-7; 38-Double D! The prosecution knew it was something telling the girls where to go, but they didn't know the system. This was the only thing on paper connecting me and Cyn. None of the girls talked, I'll tell you that for sure."

John heard a quiet sobbing, and then, "Did Daddy know?"

"Al? Your _daddy_? Probably not. I never told him. Your mama always thought it was important to keep someone clean. Afterward, after I got exonerated, she'd have nothing to do with me; wanted to go international and totally legit. Just to pay the damn bills, I had to hire myself out as a spokesman at the clinic where we sent the girls to get- enhanced. I got to lead the informational seminars; they let me work on commission." A low chuckle. " They never knew what hit them! In six months, the place was mine. Jason's first place. It took off like wildfire after that; turns out everyone wants to look like a- Hey. You know what? Let's take a look at your nose." Another pause. "There we go, Darling; we'll just unwind- So, yeah, I hired me a bunch of MBA and lawyers, started Jason's Place and got big. Real big. Putting the spas in your mama's hotels is the next step for both of us. The way I figure it, I gave her a leg up; she can damn well help me. There we go! Swelling's all down; pretty as a picture! Take a look."

A piercing cry- "What did you do!" John clenched-

"I gave you back what your mama took away."

"This is my old nose! The one Mama-"

"Hated? Yep. It probably reminded her of someone."

"Are you saying you are my-"

"Daddy? I have no idea, Darling. Ain't that a bitch? Seems your mama was screwing a lot of guys back then: Some for fun, some for love, some for money. Hell if I know which one I was."

Deenie was sobbing. It took all of John's willpower not to leap out and remove Jason's nose, or some other part of his anatomy; but, after a time, Deenie quieted, and Jason started talking again in a softer tone. John had to press his ear against the door to hear.

"Now, your mama has lost sight of her bottom line; let history and emotions run her head. Crappy management. I'm not fooling when I say Jason's Place is big; it's made growth that would put Texas Friendly to shame. A partnership between our companies would be good for everyone. I've brought a prospectus of Jason's Place and a couple of contracts to start negotiations. Medea, I want you to look them over, pick something you think your mama would swallow, and we'll talk. Partners. You and me." Jason's voice was growing louder. "It wouldn't be the first time she's changed her mind for you."

The other side of the wardrobe opened; John froze. Jason reached in and removed a zebra striped, sequined jacket. "Ooh! Gift from your mama?" He looked into the room and smiled. "You've been on the news in this jacket, haven't you? You mind if I borrow this here?" Pause. "Super." All dark again. John heard the room door open. "See you later, Darling. Enjoy your toast." The door shut.

John pushed his way out of the wardrobe: Deenie was sitting on the floor, head down, arms around her knees; a small pile of documents and a hand mirror on the floor next to her. "Deenie?" No response. He squatted down. "Deenie?"

She lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, and regarded him for a long moment. "Get me the hell out of here."

XXXXX

Shampoo, condition, bleach, curl, spray, spray, spray. Pluck, wax, moisturize, lift, paint, paint, paint. Three cowed women, submitting. A frenzy of white coats. A pair of falsies. A glittering zebra jacket -This would be fabulous with your new hair and your new figure!- Three cowled bathrobes -You all are so beautiful! Let's keep it a surprise!-Three faceless women, pacing to the green. A man in rattlesnake boots, waiting. Beyond the lawn, behind the gate, a throng of men and women: Microphones, cameras, booms, wires. A broad smile. "Take off your robes. Don't turn around." Three women standing; their backs to the mob: Flash! Flash! Flash!

XXXXX

_This just out: In a surprise development, American heiress, Deenie Doran, has been photographed at the Winchester Jason's Place Spa and retreat Center, greeting Jason Courage, the Jason's Place corporation founder and CEO. Until today, Miss Doran was believed to have been kidnapped with her mother, Texas Friendly hotel chain co-CEO Cynthia Doran, and sister, Victoria Doran. Jason's Place issued the following statement: Miss Doran came voluntarily to the spa eight days ago. She plans to remain until further notice. _

_Miss Doran is engaged to be married to Lord Roger St. Simon in a private ceremony that was to take place tomorrow morning. There is no word regarding her upcoming nuptials or the status of her mother or sister. Lord St. Simon is reported to be prostrate with grief_.

XXXXX

Upstairs, the marriage encounter group received their lunch quietly. Sherlock had just finished serving when Jason stood up in front. "Well, hello everybody. I met most of you at breakfast; I am Jason Courage, the leader and CEO of Jason's Place spas-" The group applauded. "Thank you! Thank you! Wow! You guys are what it is all about!" The applause continued and he held out his hands. "Did you know your lives have been saved?" More applause. "Did you know you have saved my life?" Even louder. "Did you know-" He held out his hands again and waited for silence. "Did you know you have saved Deenie Doran's life?" Silence. "Yes! She has agreed to endorse Jason's Place spas and we are on our way to a contract with-" His words were drowned out by applause and shouts. "You did it people!"

The roaring went on while Sherlock made his cart ready with the two digestive biscuits and cup of water that Jason had approved for Deenie's lunch.

When the cheering died down, Jason continued, "Now I know you all would love to thank Deenie in person, but she is not going to be available for some time. You see, Deenie is going to be having more work done. A lot more work." Jason smiled at the whoops and cheers.


	13. Chapter 13: Free Yeah!

Sweet Fire

Chapter 13: Free. Yeah!

_Don't you carry nothing that might be a load  
Come on, ease on down, ease on down the road!_

_-Charlie Smalls_

Sherlock was waiting in the room when Molly returned from lunch. "Molly."

She jumped. "Sherlock! You-" Taking a deep breath, "Is it all set?"

"Yes. John is in place and Deenie is briefed-" Oh. Molly was disturbingly unfamiliar. Blonde hair, of course-they matched Deenie's color and cut well-but also: Her whole face shaded differently; eyes and mouth made to look larger; skin entirely different- His friendly freckle was gone.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes." He averted his eyes. "Deenie no longer has her bandage. It shouldn't make a difference; you would want to cover your face to avoid stings." Drifting back, "What did they do to your-" He indicated her neck.

"Nothing." She reached up and brushed it with her fingertips. "What-?" Turning to the mirror, "Is there something-?"

"No. It- There was a freckle, there." He pointed.

"Oh, that little- That mole? I have a few of those. It's covered with make-up, is all." Leaning forward, she looked more closely while Sherlock contemplated: A few. A few of those. Where? Shoulder? Shoulder blade? Along her spine? Hip? Yes. Navel-

"Sherlock?" She was staring, frowning. "We must talk." With a deep breath, "This is a bit awkward. I'm afraid I don't think-" A tap at the door.

Sherlock stepped into the closet and listened as Molly admitted whomever it was. "Oh, Claire, hello."

"Yes, Violet. I noticed you hadn't signed up for a treatment, and I was wondering if I could suggest a few things."

"Oh. I- I was going to take a sauna this afternoon." A long pause. "I thought it would be relaxing."

"Yes, of course it would, but you must consider your Golden Fleece. Would a sauna make you more lovable? It never has. Both Jasmine and Edna are taking advantage of the expert advice and opportunities available here. What shall I sign you up for?"

"Yes, well, I was- I was just balancing my checkbook, actually. To see if I could-"

"Every penny you invest will be returned to you a thousand fold, and we do have finance plans available. This is your life, Violet. Don't limit yourself." A flick of paper. "I notice you are taking another retreat in July. In Aylsbury?"

"Yes."

"Funded by a Molly-"

"My sister."

Sherlock stiffened. This wasn't good.

"Well. If she's willing to support a retreat, she may be willing to make it count; a treatment or procedure? Perhaps you could-?"

"I'll look into it."

"Do. I shall leave you to it. Let me know at tea." Another pause. "I see you are still wearing your falsies- No, no. Keep them for today. You must be thrilled to actually resemble a woman. Make them yours, Violet. Make them real. The sad truth is no one will ever love a prepubescent fake." Another pause, and the door shut.

Molly opened the closet with a taut face. As Sherlock stepped out, she sat in front of the mirror and began to draw her hair back, asking, "Do you have the clothes?"

"Yes," he answered warily. Her voice had that odd sodden quality that meant she was close to tears. "And the shoes." Watching closely, he handed her the black carry-all John had brought. "I included Deenie's passport, wallet-" Molly was showing even more strain. "She's an idiot, Molly." Molly nodded, her lips pressed close together and her eyes blinking quickly. "You are beautiful. We've been over-"

"Shht!" Molly put her hand out, turned to the wall and inhaled noisily. She wanted distraction: He could- right there, behind her ear; his arms around- She would sigh, perhaps smile- But. The 'Shht!' was rather clear -Well- Clearly, he shouldn't talk; perhaps he could- Perhaps not. He waited, vigilant, relaxing only when her shoulders dropped, and she slowly turned around: Her eyes were wet, but no longer brimming.

She glanced at him and smiled briefly. "I didn't want to- to ruin the make-up." Opening the carry-all, "I must change." Sherlock nodded. She stared at him, so he nodded again, and she frowned, slightly. "So if you are going to stay here, you must either face the wall or step back into the closet." Oh.

Facing the wall, he spoke over his shoulder, "We should make our way to the basement soon. It's almost time, and Dr. Toller is at lunch." As they went, he would take her hand, he decided. It was what he could do.

XXXXX

Patricia reviewed the charts: Everyone seemed to be healing, thank goodness. Normally, they didn't throw patients into those groups directly after surgery: No sleep, sitting up the whole time: Not advisable. And removing all of the bandages after only three days! Just then, the lift opened, and one of those beauty experts in a lab coat and glasses came rushing out, holding a black carry-all. She hurried to the treatment rooms, her blonde hair in a bun. Watching her, Patricia wondered: Diamond scrub? Chocolate facial? She sighed. Someday.

XXXXX

John had left his watch. 2:45. Time. Deenie knocked at the door. "I need to use the- the toilet." She had to knock for a good five minutes before the guard finally opened the door.

"Let's go."

She kept her face down and her hand over her nose as they made their way down the hallway. At the door, she took a quiet breath and glanced at the guard's nametag: Joshua. John had said she should try to connect- "Thank-"

"Two minutes." Staring away, he opened the bathroom door, and she stepped in. At the sink was a short blonde woman in a lab coat: Hair down, make-up half off. She looked up and smiled.

"Hullo, Deenie."

XXXXX

It must have been a ghost. The cameras showed nothing unusual, but somehow the beehive from the lab found itself out of the glass enclosure and in the lift, leaning so that that when the door slid open at the top floor, the hive crashed down, and the bees poured out in a seething mass. The screaming soon followed.

XXXXX

Joshua thumped frantically on the locked toilet door. "Out! Out!" It finally opened, and the client, her face in her hands, came out shrieking, running for the lobby and stairs. "No!" He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, her blonde hair whipping his face. Protecting the client was paramount; they had stressed that in day three of his training: Always protect the client! Pushing his way through the bees, he hauled her down the corridor and threw her into her room, locking the door securely before tearing out to the lobby and down the stairs.

XXXXX

Wearing a towel over her head, Patricia did a quick final check to make sure everyone had made it out. Deenie's door was locked, but the guard was gone, and the room was quiet. He must have taken her downstairs. Oh! The toilet door opened and that blonde-bun beauty expert with the black carry-all raced out to the lobby, her hand over her face. Not a fantastic time for a touch-up, dearie!

XXXXX

On the ground floor, Deenie met Toby-Sherlock-who took her out through the back instead of the front where everyone else was. They ran toward the woods, pausing at the kennel to release the dogs-apparently Sherlock had a key-feed them bread, and grab a ladder, which he carried through the woods and to a wall. Carrying the black carry-all, she climbed up, stepped on a heavy blanket covering some barbed wire and was helped down the other side by John Watson, the most beautiful sight in the world.

XXXXX

Jephro wished to hell he had his gun; God damned dogs! How the hell had this happened! The bees! The dogs! Deenie-Dammit! He spotted the guard-Jesus! Look at his face!-and pushed his way over. "Where's Deenie!" The boy was all stupid, so Jephro grabbed his shoulders and gave him a good shake, "Come on, boy! Is Deenie secure?"

The boy goggled at him before catching his breath and answering, "Sir! Yes! I locked her in her room!"

"She's locked in?"

"Yes, sir!"

Jephro let go of his shoulders. "Good job, son! Give me your gun."

XXXXX

Deenie safely away, Sherlock ran back to the main building and peered round the corner to the front where the dogs were noisily darting in and out of the crowd. He stepped to the side door and was about to go in when two shots exploded, followed by yelping. Jumping back to look: Jason was aiming a gun at the woods; everyone else was gob-stopped. The dogs were nowhere to be seen. Sherlock turned and raced inside.

XXXXX

_LOUD NOISE LOUD NOISE LOUD NOISE_-Fred tore after Buster in the woods-_OOH OOH-_They ran until they met the tall hard fence-Ran along the tall hard fence until it met the other tall hard fence-Jumped behind the big rock and clumped together, Stinky on the bottom-_ooh ooh ooh-_they hushed; went still. After a while, Fred licked Tiger below him-the Loud Noises were so so Loud! It was quiet here, though. Fred panted.

Suddenly, Buster-on top-perked! There! Far away but coming- Fast! A whole pack of Howling Ghost Dogs! Sometimes one or even two Ghost Dogs would race fast near their cage Howling- You couldn't see or smell Ghost Dogs, they would Howl so Loud!- But this! So many! Oh! Buster jumped down and sat and Howled and Fred sat and Howled and Tiger sat and Howled and Stinky- Oh, Stinky!

XXXXX

When Jephro heard the sirens screaming, he lowered his gun and spun around to the crowd. "Who called the police!" Damn! The press would be right behind- "Who did it!"

"If there are paramedics, we need them. Some of these people are severely stung!" It was that nurse, kneeling next to someone; she was looking at him.

Jephro narrowed his eyes. "Get over here." He didn't point the gun at her but kept his finger on the trigger.

She stared. "Excuse me?"

Crossing over, he bent close to her ear. "Get up and walk with me or you'll wish you had."

"Patricia?" It was that guy from the basement, coming toward them, glaring. "What do you want with my wife?" The sirens were getting closer.

Jephro stood. "You're from the lab, right?" The guy nodded, and Jephro nodded right back at him. "Yeah, that's where the bees were." He kept his gun low but pointed it at the nurse. "Get in the building. Both of you."

Michael approached them. "Jason, there are police-"

"Michael, thank God you're here!" Jephro helped the nurse stand, his gun hand behind her. "I need you to keep these people calm! Hey! Boy!" Deenie's guard looked up, startled, and came over. "Get on your radio and tell that guard at the gate: Don't let any police or anyone-especially not the press-come in here. Michael, you got a radio?" Michael nodded. "Super! You got to make sure no one comes in here! You tell them this is private property!"

"Right! I'll send Claire to the guardhouse. She's our spokesperson."

"Okay! If we all can stay in contact, we'll get through this okay." Turning to the guard, "Boy, I need you. Come with us. Michael, this guard, the nurse, and this lab guy are going into the building with me to- assess the situation inside. We'll let you know what's up a-sap."

"Oh! Isn't that dangerous?"

"Well, son, that's why they call me Jason Courage. Come on!" Waving the nurse and the lab guy ahead, Jephro and the guard headed for the building.

XXXXX

"Yes, Molly and I have just entered the foyer. We'll be out and over the wall-" Sherlock cut the call short as the front door burst open and Nurse Toller, Dr. Toller, Deenie's guard and Jason, holding a gun, stumbled in.

"Toby! You found someone else!" Nurse Toller stared at Molly.

"Yes, Ma'am, Miss Hunter was-"

"Hiding in the toilet, I'm afraid." Molly smiled.

"But-"

"That's the client, sir! Deenie!" The guard moved toward Molly, and Sherlock stepped in front of her.

"Naw, it ain't, but she sure is dressed like Deenie." Jason leveled his gun at Molly and snatched the mobile out of Sherlock's hand. "Let's go. Everyone down to the basement." Waving everyone ahead of him, "We'll get to the bottom of this."

XXXXX

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Something had happened because John stared at the cell phone, then closed it and gunned the engine. Deenie caught her breath as they passed several wailing police cars racing in the opposite direction. "Are they going to-"

"Yes. I rang it in. Bomb threat."

"Ah." She smiled. "Where are we going?"

"Winchester police station." John glanced at her. "I'm sorry; I would take you to London, but I must return and help my friends. You'll be safe."

"It's fine," her back grew tight, "I don't want to go to London."

John frowned, "Your parents and Lord St. Simon are in London. Why don't you want to go-" he fell silent.

When they arrived at the police station, she turned to him. "Will I ever see you again?"

He met her eye. "That is entirely up to you. I live in London."

Nodding, she stepped from the car. In the police station, she waited until he had pulled away then crossed to the reception desk with her best timid smile. "Pardon me? I'm a bit lost. Could you direct me to the train station? Oh, thank you!" She would call the police eventually. Right now, she had to go far away; someplace she could think. Someplace where everyone would just shut up! -and let her think.


	14. Chapter 14: Any Deadly Thing

Sweet Fire

Chapter 14: Any Deadly Thing

_Look Out!_

_-Lennon and McCartney_

"Get those people behind the building, Michael. I don't want anyone visible from the gate." Damn, it stank down here. Jephro glanced around the cluttered lab: Tanks, cages- The snake. Right. No wonder. He handed the radio back to the boy and waved at the two spies, "Search them." The boy took the radio, but just stood there with the nurse and lab guy, looking scared. Christ. "What's your name, son?"

"Joshua. Sir."

Keeping the gun trained on the spies but low-he needed friends here-Jephro spoke quietly. "Well, Josh, I know this is tough. You thought you were protecting a girl who was kind of sick in the head. Well, you were, son. What we didn't tell you-" he glanced over to the nurse and lab guy "-was that she was also a millionaire and in danger of being kidnapped. Now, Josh, I see you went through hell to keep her safe. That shows a lot of character, son; a lot of commitment. These people-" he pointed at the spies "-played dirty pool: Pulled some kind of a switch. Set bees on people, for Christ's sake! Someone could have died. They need to be checked for weapons, so they can't hurt anybody else. Start with her." He nodded at the girl, Violet.

Joshua stepped forward and muttered, "Raise your hands." She did, and, turning his head away, he quickly went over her back, hips and legs. "Nothing, sir."

"Okay cool." Jephro stepped behind Violet, the gun at the small of her back, and nodded at Toby. "Now do him." Toby looked ornery, so Jephro moved closer to Violet, poking her back with the muzzle. She arched her back-Ooh! Honey! He loved it when they did that!-and Jephro grinned, telling Toby, "Raise up your hands." Glaring, Toby obliged, and Joshua checked his arms, legs-at Toby's back, Josh stopped and stared at Jephro.

"A gun! Under his overall!"

"Okay, Josh. Nice find." Jephro kept his eyes on Toby. "Hey, Buddy. Nobody wants to get hurt, especially not Violet here." Putting his arm around her waist, he pulled her in tight, gun on her side, and nodded. "Get it, Josh."

Josh unzipped the coverall and pulled it off of Toby's arms; then reached in and took out the pistol, holding it with two fingers. Staring, he held it out to Jephro who released Violet and accepted it with his free hand, flicking off the safety. With both guns trained on Violet, Jephro glanced around the room, taking stock. Finally, he turned to Josh, who had snuck back to the nurse and lab guy. "Josh, can you grab two chairs for our friends here? And that there's a bag of zip-ties on that shelf, right? Can you grab that bag and bring it on over here? Let's all sit down and relax."

Josh stepped to it: Brought everything, set down the chairs, and turned to go, but Jephro stopped him. "Hold on there son. Let's make sure old Toby here don't have any other weird surprises up his sleeve. Go ahead and zip-tie his hands and legs to that chair. Have a seat there, Toby." Gritting his teeth, Toby sat, and, working slow, Josh zip-tied him in, nice and tight. Eyes on Toby, Jephro put his lips next to Violet's ear, "You too, Darling." She sank slowly into the chair, and Jephro glanced at Josh. "Now do this sweetie."

"It's me you want!" Toby was yanking on the ties. "Let her go!"

"Toby, boy. This is for her protection. If she starts wandering around, she might get shot, totally by accident. It could happen to anybody, really." Jephro stepped back and let Josh do his job.

Just as Josh was finishing, Toby's cell phone vibrated in Jephro's pocket. Keeping Toby's pistol, Jephro handed Josh back his gun and answered. "Yes?"

"Sherlock! I'm at the rendezvous-Where are you? Is Molly okay-"

Jephro cut it off, came around in front of the two and sat on a table. He glanced at the others. "Nurse, could you help Josh here with his bee stings? You got something?" The nurse glanced at the lab guy, who nodded. "Super. Josh, the good nurse is going to take care of you." Jephro watched as Josh holstered his gun, and the nurse and lab guy got to work. "While you're doing that, y'all tell me: Y'ever heard of a guy named Sherlock?"

XXXXX

Dead again! John glared at the mobile and tried twice more, but the calls went immediately to voicemail. He started the car, turned it and raced to the center. The entrance to the estate was completely blockaded: Panda cars, response cars, armed response vehicles, media vans- What to do? Suddenly, an officer tapped on his window. "Sir, this is a police investigation. You'll have to-"

"John Watson!" It was Lestrade with a uniformed officer. "What the hell-! Is Sherlock in there? Get out of that car!" John parked and stepped out, thinking fast.

"Lestrade! Why are you-"

"I came down when the press reported that Deenie Doran was here. Where is Sherlock? If he knew she was here-"

"I don't know where Sherlock is. I keep ringing him and the calls are dropped. He might be in trouble."

"Of course he's in trouble! Bomb threats! Shots fired! Can't get a straight answer out of anyone! It's got Sherlock In Trouble written all over it!"

"Who's this, then?" The other officer scowled at John.

Lestrade turned to him. "John Watson, associate of Sherlock Holmes. We use him-"

"I've heard of Sherlock Holmes. Highly irregular arrangement, if you ask me."

"John, this is the Police Chief of Winchester, Ronald Wilson. He's appointed me the Police Gold Commander to deal with this potential terrorist attack. The Home Office is involved, John. The military. A terrorism response vehicle is on its way. What is going on in there? Where is Deenie Doran?"

John stared. Where was-?

XXXXX

Scalpels in that drawer; Bunsen burners; test tubes he could break- The weapons were there; if only Sherlock's hands were free, and Molly were safe: She was pale and doing that purposefully slow breathing which meant she was close to panicking.

Jason was talking with Dr. and Nurse Toller, but his attention was on Sherlock and Molly; his gun never wavered. "So this Holmes fellow was working with this Moriarty fellow, who ends up shot in the head. Hmph."

"No, they cleared him." Dr. Toller shook his head. "They cleared Sherlock Holmes. He was in the right."

"Was he? Here's what I see: Two guys are doing bad stuff. One of them gets shot in the head. The other one shows up at a spa with a gun, lets out a bunch of bees, kidnaps a girl- Yeah. I'm not so sure." Just then, the radio crackled and Michael's voice came through. "Jason! The police are insisting that we open the gates and let everyone out. Claire is holding them off but-"

Jason snatched the radio: "Tell her to tell them they have no right to come in here! You keep that damned gate closed!"

"They had a bomb threat and want to know why we evacuated everyone."

"Are all those people behind the building?"

"Yes. Nobody is visible from the gate. Jason, they want to know where Deenie Doran is. Someone claims they took her to the police station, but she is missing."

"Yeah, sure. Sure they took her to a police station." Jason stepped in front of Sherlock. "You tell them Deenie was removed from our custody without anyone's consent, including her own, and we are very concerned. Tell them we have a Molly somebody and a Sherlock Holmes here. Sherlock's going to call and tell everyone where Deenie is. He'll explain the whole situation real soon. You got that?"

"Hooper." It was Claire's voice on the radio, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Damn. Claire continued, "She's Molly Hooper. I have her information in my records."

"Okay. Hooper. Molly Hooper. Claire, you are doing a damned fine job. Tell them, Michael. It'll just be a few minutes." Sherlock watched as Jason handed the radio back to Joshua and stepped back behind Molly, who appeared to have stopped breathing. Jason smiled, "Nurse, what is your name?"

Nurse Toller looked up. "Um…Patricia. Patricia Toller."

Jason nodded. "And your husband. Is that Doctor Toller?"

"Yes."

"Doctor Toller, what is your first name, sir?"

"Kevin."

"Ah. Kevin. Super. Thank you. Now, Patricia, in a few minutes, I'm going to ask you to do something that will save someone's life; would you do that for me?"

"Of course."

"That's great. Kevin here is going to help you. He seems like a real supportive kind of guy." He put his free hand on Molly's shoulder and bent over to look Sherlock in the eye. "So. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You know anything about black mambas?"

XXXXX

"If you dropped her at the police station, where is she now?" Chief Wilson was red faced.

"I don't know!" John appealed to Lestrade. "She had her passport, credit cards and a lot of cash-perhaps she bolted!"

Wilson glowered. "That's mad! Why would she do that!"

"She was traumatized!" Just then, a loud rumbling came from the highway: A terrorism response vehicle and two police vans pulled to a stop in front of the gate. Men in military garb, holding riot guns, poured out. Oh, God.

XXXXX

Molly startled as the radio crackled: "Jason! The police are here with an armored truck! And soldiers! With guns! I think they're going to try to ram the gates!" Jason took the radio from Joshua again.

"Yeah, okay, Michael. I was expecting that. You tell Claire to tell them to hold off; we are going cooperate. Then go in the back, and you get everyone to line up, okay? One big line. Have them walk out and-this is important-hold their hands over their faces. I told these people that I would protect their identities and I damn well will protect their identities. You get them to walk out right in front of that gate so the police and press and everyone can count them. We're not hiding anything here! You have those people turn around and sit down in front of that gate; once they are on the ground with their backs to the press and police, they can drop their hands, be comfortable. Will you do that for me, Michael?"

"Line up and walk out and sit in front of the gate. Okay."

"With their faces covered; their backs to the gate. We're protecting their identities, here. I want everyone to feel real safe."

"Will do, Jason."

"Good man." Jason handed the radio back to Joshua, returning his hand to Molly's shoulder. Molly's heart was jumping in her chest. "Now, Mr. Holmes, I come from a long line of snake handlers out in Nowhere, Alabama. You know what our creed is? _They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them_ That's from Mark. The Bible. Thing is, two of my brothers are all gimpy from snake bites, and my daddy died from one, so that's pretty much B.S. Kevin! You got any anti-venom around here?"

Kevin straightened. "Yes."

"Good man. Would you do me a favor and get a shot ready?"

"What are you planning?"

"Something that's going to be real tragic if you don't get that shot ready. When was that mamba milked last?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Uh-huh. And when was it fed last?"

"Five days ago."

"Super." Molly cringed as Jason ran one hand over her shoulder and onto her upper arm. He pressed the side of the gun against her other shoulder, and she shuddered, her gorge rising. "This little girl is so pretty. I don't want nothing to happen to her." Molly struggled to catch her breath; her fingers tingling. Jason continued, "Okay, Sherlock. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to get on your phone with the police." He lay Sherlock's mobile Molly's lap. "That's when your cute friend Molly here is going to get bit by my friend over yonder." He nodded at the black mamba tank.

Every muscle in Molly's body wrenched-Oh, God! Her vision was fading to white, she couldn't breathe, and a high pitched ringing- Then, inexplicably, it grew quiet, and voice sounded inside her head, far gentler than Sister Agnes: _Molly, stop. If that snake bites you, your only chance of survival is if you stay calm; contain the poison until they give you the anti-venom. _The voice was so calm; almost detached_. _She found it quite soothing._ You are tied; fighting is pointless and would just push the poison through your system even faster. Relax. Slow the beats, lower the pressure. _Her shoulders dropped; her vision cleared; her fingers felt warm, the tingling gone; her breathing- easy. The voice continued: _Good. Yes. Relax. Good._ She felt her muscles go slack and was eerily aware of everything in the room: Sherlock was rocking, pulling at his restraints; Jason was pointing Sherlock's gun at Patricia and speaking to Kevin-

"-well, I'll tell you, Kevin, if something happens to you and Patricia here, I don't know who would give them shots. I would try, but, hell-" Smiling, Jason shook his head, and Kevin turned back to a tray containing little bottles. "That's a great choice, Kevin. If we all work together, we'll all be okay. Now, after Molly here is bit, how long does she have? You know, unless she gets the anti-venom."

"Twenty to thirty minutes-"

Jason turned to Sherlock. "Okay, Mr. Holmes. You got about half an hour to tell the police that everything is okay, that they need to back the hell off, where Deenie is and-this here is the fun part-that they need to get her on the phone and let me talk with her. When I am talking with Deenie, that's when Patricia and Kevin here are going to give this cutie a bunch of shots that will save her life."

"I don't know where Deenie is!" The chair legs were lifting, stamping. "I don't know-"

"The hell you don't! You stole her! You got my friend Josh there all stung up!" There was a soft cry from Joshua, leaning against a pillar, the radio trembling in his hand. Jason turned and stared for a long moment. "Josh, son. How're you doing?"

White and damp, Joshua straightened. "I'm fine, sir."

"You're doing a real good job, son. Would you do me a favor?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to do something real important: I want you to go up to the lobby and get me a visual on what's happening out there. You got your cell phone?" Joshua nodded. "You got Michael's number?" Another nod. "Great. Get on up there and give Michael a call. I'll be right downstairs. Now I'll need the radio; go ahead and leave it right here. We'll be fine; I got Patricia and Kevin here to make sure everyone is a-okay." Nodding again, Joshua stepped quickly, almost skipping to the door and was away.

XXXXX

John stared at the rows of people sitting cross legged just inside the estate, their backs to the gate. Madness. Utter madness.

XXXXX

Sherlock wasn't rocking anymore, but his arms and legs burned, and there was a drip rolling down his hand. He watched as Jason pulled the lab door shut-it was now locked with a key code-used a dolly to place a large cabinet in front; then took out a mobile and punched in a number. "Hello Claire? Remember that thing we set up for the hotel? Yeah- Well, we got to have a contingency plan in case things go sideways here. ... Yep. ... You do? Super! ... Call now, set it up. When we know for sure, we'll say which way we're going." He ended the call, rolled the dolly to the far side of the lab, secured it with a cable tie, and crossed to the black mamba enclosure.

Molly was sitting very, very still, but she seemed to be breathing, and her color was good. Sherlock whispered, "Good, Molly. It's good to be still. Mambas rely on their vision. Try not to move."

"It's you, of course," she whispered. "Of course."

He stared: She was babbling; an unusual stress reaction. Raising his voice, "You mustn't envenomate her! I shall tell the police anything! Everything!"

Jason laughed. "Well, see now that's what I'm afraid of, Mr. Holmes. Let's not mess around." He raised the enclosure lid, glanced inside, "Hi there, sweetheart!" and lifted the twisting olive brown snake. Turning back to Sherlock and Molly, "Yep. Snakes, they never bit me. I got a touch. But, you know, I'm used to rattlers; they make a nice sound when you shake them a little bit." Bouncing his hand, he moved with a swaying motion as he returned. "Okay, Kevin, I'm going to need your help here. You got that shot ready?"

"Yes."

"Super! Give that syringe to Patricia and use Sherlock's cell phone to call 911, or whatever the hell it is y'all dial here to get the police, and could you hold that phone up so he can talk?" Still swaying, he stepped in front of Molly, smiling at her. "Don't you worry, cutie. Your friends Sherlock and Patricia are going to take real good care of you. You got the police on the phone, Kevin?"

"Yes." Kevin was holding the mobile to Sherlock's ear; a quiet voice was asking about the nature of his emergency; Jason was reaching for Molly with the- Sherlock made a tremendous sideways lurch, slamming into the ground just short of Molly's chair. A scream! He torqued round to see: The writhing snake was attached to Jason's neck; Jason was thrashing, pulling at it. Suddenly, he made a throwing motion, and the snake flew onto Molly's lap, reared and struck her in the chest-Once! Again! Again!-then slipped to the ground directly in front of Sherlock, reared and stared-gold eyes-turned and slithered away.

It took Sherlock four precious seconds to find his tongue: "Give her the shot! Give her the shot!" He struggled against the chair, feeling the cable ties cut deeply into his wrists and ankles. Nurse Toller rushed over-

"No! I'm fine! Don't! Please!" Molly! Sherlock heaved again: Molly was staring at Nurse Toller and the syringe of anti-venom. "It didn't reach me! It got the falsies. Both falsies, I think." Oh- Oh, God. Sherlock sagged, his eyes becoming quite moist.


	15. Chapter 15: Safe and Sound

Sweet Fire

Chapter 15: Safe and Sound

_ I have only one itching desire- _

_-Anderson, Camper, Izquierdo, and Kinelski_

On Claire's radio, Nurse Toller was screeching: "For God's sake, you've got to let them in! I told you, Jason was bitten by a black mamba! He's not responding to the anti-venom!"

Michael answered: "Let me talk to him!"

"He's unconscious! He was pushing a cabinet away from the door! He wants medical attention immediately!"

"Where's the guard?"

Claire lifted her mobile and punched in the number. When it was answered: "Have you seen the news? ... Yes, obviously. You have the address. Jason had faith in you, but to be honest, I'm not certain of your commitment. You let us down rather badly, I'm afraid. If you can find the courage, it's in a box just outside the wall, at the northwest corner, by the beech tree. Take care of it; it is mine."

XXXXX

_This just in: The standoff at the Winchester Jason' Place Spa Retreat has been resolved. To review: A few hours after American heiress Deenie Doran, fiancée to Lord Roger St. Simon, was photographed at the spa, a bomb threat was made. The police arrived to find the facility evacuated, but were blocked from entering the grounds by retreat goers. After several hours, the police were finally admitted when Jason Courage, American founder and CEO of the Jason's Place Corporation, was severely bitten by a poisonous snake. He is reported to be in critical condition and is not expected to recover. _

_In a related story, Miss Doran was being held in the spa against her will, according to a police spokesperson; her present whereabouts are unknown. She was last seen in the vicinity of the Winchester police station earlier this evening._

XXXXX

Wonderful! Lord Roger could hardly contain himself and sent a message to Florrie:

_Florrie! Terrific news! Deenie has been found in Cornwall, of all places! Lestrade was giving the Dorans and me an update when they rang him; he is learning the details even now! You must return, Darling, and see me through this wedding. I depend on you. Haven't you had enough of the French? -Podge _

There. She would have to answer that. Florrie, for all of her charms, was a terrible correspondent. During this entire ordeal, she had responded only once: When he had begged her to return and help him through the horror of discovering that Aloysius was not actually Deenie's father. Then, she had been a tad pert:

_Get off it, Podge, you tiresome old bat. No one cares about fathers anymore. If you want a reason to marry her, talk with Percy. Tell him to extend me another line of credit while you are at it, or I shall be using your cards. –Flora_

When Detective Inspector Lestrade ended his call with the constable in Port Isaac, Cynthia leapt up. "I want her back today!"

"Well, Mrs. Doran, we don't actually have plans to bring her here. She has requested that her family stay remain in London. To give her a bit of space."

"That's crazy!"

"Mrs. Doran, please. It would be best if we respected her wishes. She did come forward and is cooperating in every way."

"You have to lock her up! Keep her safe!" She was wringing her hands!

"They are checking in with her, and the spa leadership is under intense scrutiny by both Britain and the US; I don't believe we need to restrict Deenie's freedom of movement."

Cynthia positively shrieked! "It's a cult! The members could be anywhere!"

Detective Inspector Lestrade spoke soothingly, "This particular cult never had much of a presence in Britian; Jason is in a coma and can't give orders. There doesn't appear to be a threat."

Oh, dear. Lord Roger sighed and turned to reassure. "Cynthia, don't worry a moment. I shall go to her directly." Perhaps Florrie would accompany-

"Lord St. Simon," Detective Inspector Lestrade was shaking his head! "I'm afraid Deenie has requested specifically that you stay away."

Lord Roger's hands absolutely dropped! "That's mad! We were to be married yesterday!"

"She didn't mention anything about the wedding."

Aloysious stood and addressed Lord Roger, "Roger, man, I am just real sorry. That son of a bitch must have-" He shook his head. For God's sake!

Detective Inspector Lestrade continued, "The only person Deenie has agreed to speak with is her sister."

Her sister! Of course! Lord Roger gazed at the sweet girl perched on the couch between her parents. 'Lady Victoria' had a far better ring to it than 'Lady Deenie', and everyone knew who her father was.

XXXXX

Four o'clock, Monday afternoon. In his office, Greg stood and stretched: It had been a hell of a weekend. Officer Brown poked his head in the doorway. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir. You wanted to see Mr. Holmes before he was released. He's in interview room A."

"Yes. Thank you." Greg followed Brown into the corridor and considered Sherlock through the window: He was texting furiously. They reported that he hadn't eaten or slept in lock-up; had spent his time demanding his mobile, or to be released, or to speak with Greg. For his call, he had first rung John Watson, who didn't pick up; small wonder. Ronald Wilson had been out for blood after the fiasco at the center. Because Greg had snatched up Sherlock, Ronald had set upon John; it had taken quite a bit of favor-pulling to keep him from being charged as a terrorist. For Sherlock's next call, he had rung an unlisted government number, probably his brother: He had yelled quite a bit, slammed the phone down and was sullen for some time afterward.

Greg opened the interview room door, and Sherlock leapt to his feet. "Lestrade! John won't respond! You must-"

"Sit down and listen." Sherlock sat, arms crossed, legs twitching, and Greg continued, "Because we have located Deenie and everyone has corroborated your story, we are releasing you. However," he stared meaningfully, "the charges of obstruction and withholding evidence remain; I haven't dismissed them, I am simply not executing them at this time. I have a request for you, Sherlock: Don't bring any more civilians into these investigations." Sherlock was still. "John Watson, okay, he's a military man-who, by the way, was detained by the Winchester Police and questioned about his loyalty to the crown for fourteen hours; he will be released soon, but will be out of commission for quite some time-but Molly Hooper? A lab tech with an anxiety disorder?"

"That's why I-" Sherlock broke it off and glowered. "She didn't panic at all during this, even when-"

"Even when a cult leader was waving a deadly snake at her? Even when that same snake was biting her repeatedly? And that makes it all right, does it? Sherlock, you think you can protect her, but you can't. By my count, this is the second time you've nearly done her in; there was enough venom in those falsies to kill five men. I wonder how she's sleeping these days?" Sherlock was silent, lips tight. Greg went on, "Now, Molly Hooper seems a smart girl, I'm certain she will have nothing more to do with you after this; but if you involve her in another case or take a liking to another civilian, I will arrest you. That is a promise. I won't have the blood of some titillated girl-"

"I must go!"

"Yeah. Goodbye, Sherlock."

At the doorway, Sherlock stopped and scowled. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Greg. "Lestrade, I want- Help."

XXXXX

_Are you home?-SH_

Molly sighed and checked one last item on the laptop before responding. _Yes-Molly_

_Must take you to roof-SH_

She owed him so much; she felt quite disloyal. And yet- She squared her shoulders and texted: _Stop in. May have jar-We must talk-Molly _

Perhaps it wouldn't be too dreadful-_Coming up now-SH _What-!

_Where are you?-Molly_

_Lift-SH_

Wonderful. Did she have a jar? She opened the front door and was searching when he knocked, stepped in and strode to the window holding a rather powerful pair of binoculars. She frowned. "Sherlock! You- You're-"

"Yes." He was at the window, peering through the binoculars. "Can't see much of the street from here."

"No. No you can't. What are you looking for?" Sherlock lowered the binoculars and gazed intently out the window, saying nothing. All right. Molly took a deep breath. "It's good that you are here. I've something to tell you."

"I want your bedroom." He turned and practically flew out. Molly, trailing behind him, paused at the bedroom doorway: He was in front of the bed at the window, again staring out through the binoculars. Holding this position, he spoke, "This is better. Were you going to tell me something?"

"It can wait."

"You may as well tell me now. This may take some time."

"Okay." Molly stepped into the room uncertainly. "I'm applying for a graduate program for forensic science, with a focus on criminal motivation. I could get a masters; perhaps a doctorate."

"Oh."

"It's a wonderful opportunity. I would learn from the top people in the field. After I get this degree, I could teach, or lead a lab. Work in the field. Something. I have my dad's inheritance; this is exactly what he would have wanted me to do."

"Ah."

Molly watched him for a moment and frowned again. "It's out of London. In-" she named the place, some distance away.

At this, Sherlock lowered the binoculars and looked at her. "Out of London? You would leave?"

"Yes, I-"

"Excellent!" Back to scanning, "When are you going?"

Molly stared, suddenly quite cold. "I don't know. I haven't even applied. I'd have to apply this fall to enter next fall. I may not get in." Feeling rather close to tears, "You don't-"

"Of course you'd get in." Sherlock fixed on something, then moved on. "Your marks and exams are good, and you're associated with me: That alone would be enough to get anyone in."

"How did you know-"

"Lestrade doesn't want you to work on cases with me any more. He said it was too dangerous; he doesn't want the blood of a titillated girl on his-"

"Titillated girl!"

"Yes. But if you're out of London, I could just go to you, and we could solve cases-"

"I'm not a titillated girl!"

"You must be a bit; Lestrade said distinctly-"

"I don't care what he said, I'm not a titillated girl, and I'm not sure I want you to come with me!" There! It was said!

Sherlock paused; then resumed his scanning. "I couldn't come with you; I would just visit. I can't leave London, not completely. The criminal element- You know." He straightened, lowering the binoculars. "This is no good."

"Sherlock-"

"I can't see enough."

"Sherlock, how did you know about my marks and exams?"

"We must go to the roof. I thought we would."

"You went through my records, didn't you. In here. In my bedroom."

He took one last look out of the window and faced her. "It was a long time ago. Right after I had moved in here; I was curious."

"Bored!"

"Yes. Bored. Okay. Come with me." He strode past her.

"We're not done talking!"

At the front door, "Then come!"

"Where are we going?" Against her better judgment, she followed him into the kitchen.

"To the roof!"

Staring, "To find a mate for Brian?"

"Oh. Perhaps. There might be time afterwards. Bring him along, by all means." He stepped out of the flat and into the corridor.

XXXXX

Waiting for the lift, Sherlock tried to recall if there were good vantage points from the roof. It was hard to think with Molly beside him, going on and on: "Sherlock, look. I tried to tell you this back at the retreat center. You're so very different; gifted in may ways, of course, and you've helped me a great deal, but you see things so differently; understand things- feel things differently. It's a bit beyond what I- I just- I don't think we work well together."

"Work well-?" Sherlock frowned, "Of course we work well together. We've solved lots of cases-"

"I don't mean cases; I mean personally, our personal relationship. Going through my records is a perfect example of why I don't think it would be a good idea for you to visit; why we should not try to be together outside of- of the morgue."

"Because I know you are clever?"

"Because you paw through my things! You don't respect me! I'm like a case to you: Something to be investigated, not a real-" The lift arrived, and they stepped on.

"You're upset." Sherlock pushed the top floor button.

"Yes, of course I'm upset! Haven't you been listening?"

Sighing, "Upset. Again! Can't you ever not be upset? Be- Not upset. Is there a word for that? 'Not upset'?" He looked at Molly. "What is that called?"

Molly stared for a moment; then glanced away. "Happy?"

"No, not 'happy.' Only small children and idiots are happy. Something else."

"Content?"

"'Content.'" He shuddered. "No. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. What is it called when one sees something, something unexpected, something one doesn't understand right away, and instead of becoming upset, one says, simply, 'Oh.'"

Molly shook her head, and Sherlock sighed once again. "Things would be so much easier if you were- whatever- not upset. You get upset when I call you beautiful, for God's sake. You really get upset when I try to kiss- to have- You know. Tea." Reflecting, "I shouldn't think the solution to that problem would be so very difficult." His eyes met hers. "If it were possible, it would be fantastic, because I- I-" He stopped. Molly's cheeks were reddish pink, and she was looking at the floor. Not upset still, surely; she seemed to be smiling- The lift arrived, and Sherlock stepped out. Molly was at his side.

It took him approximately two minutes to disable the alarm; they went through the access door- Yes. Good views on three of the four sides. Lestrade would have to take up the blind side. Sherlock began walking slowly along the parapet, scanning the streets with the binoculars: North side; west side-

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He stopped and turned. Molly was behind him, hands on hips. Oh, right.

Taking her arm, he walked her to to the north east corner. "I have only the one pair of binoculars, but the view lines are clear. Start here and work anti-clockwise. The east side is no good, so when you reach the south east corner, turn and return; I shall continue to work the opposite path."

Staring down at the street, "What am I looking- Oh!"

"What!" Sherlock peered through the binoculars.

"That woman and her dog! They have the exact same colored hair! But it's orange-"

"Little cat-dog! Yes! That's Eve! The wonders of hair dye and compliant animals!" Sherlock opened his mobile and entered a number. "Lestrade. Yes. She's approaching the north east corner of the tower block." Peering through the binoculars again, "Yes- Armed." He closed the mobile.

Molly gaped. "She brought a gun? She was coming to-"

"That bulge in her bag. See for yourself." He handed her the binoculars and watched as the men in black hats gathered around Eve, escorting her and Lord Pookie to a waiting police car. Neatly done! When he glanced back to Molly, she was gazing at him, an unreadable expression on her face: Not exactly a smile, but- focused. He found it difficult to look away and held her gaze until his cheeks warmed; then glanced round the roof. "There's still some light; have you got Brian?" She nodded, her expression unchanged, and Sherlock made himself concentrate. "I found him by the ventilation outlets. Why don't you start on the north side and I'll work from the south. Perhaps we'll- perhaps we'll get lucky."

XXXXX

The sun was nearing the horizon: Yellows and pinks were deepening into salmons and magentas. Having abandoned the search, Molly was gazing out at the great city that was just beginning to glow. She glanced behind her: Sherlock, scrabbling on his hands and knees, was peering into the odd corners and crannies of the ventilation ducts with his penlight. She watched: He was so very curious and so _curious_; and yet, she realized with a start, there really wasn't anywhere else she would rather be. And no one else she'd rather be with. She felt quite calm about it. How very, very odd.

He looked up. "I'm not seeing anything, and we're losing the light."

"Yes." She replied, gazing out again. The sun was almost down, and the sky was an explosion of orange, scarlet and purple; rare for April. May was just around the corner, and it would be glorious.

Sherlock came and gazed with her. "There must have been a volcanic eruption; the Rayleigh scattering-"

"Sherlock." Molly reached for his hand. "Let's just enjoy it."

They stood for a moment or two; then Sherlock shifted impatiently. "There was very little by way of insect activity. I could try again tomorrow, or we could capture a typical specimen and see if we could force him into-"

"Or we could just let him be. We've documented him enough, why don't we release him; let him find his own way? Really, that would best ensure the species survival. What time of day did you find him? Wasn't it in the morning?"

"Early morning. Directly after you had gone to work."

"We could let him go, and you could spend the night, come up in the morning and check on him."

He gave her a wondering glance, "Really? I could-? Well- Oh." Looking away, "I don't know. I'm afraid your sofa guest bed is rather uncomfortable. It was tolerable when I had no where else to stay, but- I'll just come later in the day."

Molly nodded. "You could do that: Come later in the day. That would be fine. Or you could use the- The other bed. If you didn't mind sharing. That would also be fine." She glanced, timidly.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed forward, and his mouth opened a few times before any words emerged. Finally, "Oh. Of course! No. No, I don't mind! Sharing- I mean. I don't mind sharing! Not at all! That-" He glanced at her. "And we might- Might we-?"

Molly nodded again, adding, "One part at a time," and immediately looked down, feeling herself blush to the tips of her ears. When she dared return to Sherlock, his eyes were once more focused ahead and, it could have been a trick of the light, but weren't his cheeks also flushed?

He cleared his throat. "Ah. That would be best. Optimal. Let's do! Let's let Brian- Let him- Let him go." He took the jam jar, opened the lid, knelt and tilted the jar close to the ground, allowing Brian to slide out. Then, holding hands, they turned and made for the access door while Brian, the unique cockroach, scampered away; free.

The End

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading! I hope you have enjoyed it. Writing this has been a fascinating and quite humbling process for me-I have very much appreciated all the support and feedback-Thank you, thank you, thank you! As for next steps, I'm not sure; I may be doing a major revision of this piece, to be published later. I also may be doing another episode-perhaps in this series, perhaps in another-but would like to wait until season three comes out. I have also been thinking about writing an adolescent Sherlock, or doing a standard fiction; maybe on FictionPress. We shall see!_

_In the meantime, in case you were wondering:_

John woke up, cramped and gritty, curled in a ball in the back seat of the hired car. The interrogation had been horrific; by the time they released him and grudgingly drove him back to the retreat center, he was incoherent and in no condition to drive. Now, as he slowly unclenched his limbs, he took stock: It was barely light out; his head throbbed; his stomach ached; he was thirsty, hungry- Oh, God. He grappled with his mobile: Five AM, Tuesday morning; five texts, three voicemail messages. Tuesday? The car had been due back Sunday. Oh...Crap. And shift began at noon.

He dragged himself upright, opened the door and stumbled out. In the distance, dogs were barking. The rope ladder! -Stamford's rope ladder. Crap again. On a whim, John grabbed the box of dog biscuits from the front seat and wandered into the wood.

After some searching, he found the ladder on the wall and climbed to the top; the other ladder, the one Sherlock had brought, was missing. John sat on the blanket looking out: The sky was light, but the sun was not yet up; birds were singing; a slight breeze ruffled the leaves of the spreading oaks and beeches. Ah. Suddenly, a dog dashed from the woods holding a piece of rippling blue cloth high in the air. The other three burst out after him, yipping and plunging. One dog leaped on the running dog; the others clamped on the cloth and a rowdy, four way game of tug of war ensued. With a start, John realized they were worrying Sherlock's overall; somehow they had got it in the confusion after the police had flooded in. He watched with increasing delight as the dogs pulled and pulled until- _r-r-r-rip!_ It tore into three pieces, sending two dogs tumbling. Laughing, John shook the box of treats, and the dogs abandoned the tattered overall and gathered by the wall, tails and back ends waggling furiously. He began tossing treats down: Good dogs! Good puppies! Bravo! Good!


End file.
